


Dancing with Fire

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Infidelity, Japanese Character(s), M/M, Martial Arts, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A client named Benjamin Waters makes Sherlock question everything he thought he knew about himself, and throws John far out of his comfort zone. Even as John and Sherlock work together to investigate an unusual series of killings, they can't help questioning the basis of their friendship. But then something unexpected happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Feuertanz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855560) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> SwissMiss translated this story from German into English, making it available to read for lots of people.  
> Thank you, SwissMiss!
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to Loewenflamme, as the whole idea was sparked by an email from her. I sent her an idea and a sample of text for another story just to get her opinion, and she wrote back something along the lines of:  
>  _We always assume the greatest thing for Sherlock is to be loved by John. But maybe Sherlock loves someone else._
> 
> Thank you, Loewenflamme, for the dance of fire it set off in my head!

"He's a client, John."

"A client? He keeps calling and texting, sends you emails, letters, cards, invitations to dinner, to the theatre, to concerts. And I'll bet this red rose here is from him too."

"How do you know about the invitations?"

"Oh, please. You always leave everything lying around. I can't help seeing them. Everywhere I look it's Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin..."

"Yes, he is rather... persistent."

"He fancies you, Sherlock!"

"He sees that I live with you."

"He may very well see that. He may see that we only LIVE together."

"We don't just live together, John."

"No?"

"We work together, go out together. You're my friend."

"That's not going to stop him if he fancies you. He wants more. You do realise that, don't you?"

Silence.

"Have you ever accepted one of his invitations?"

"No."

"Then you should, Sherlock. Have dinner together and talk to him. Make it clear to him you're not interested."

"Who says I'm not interested?"


	2. Bishop's Avenue

Late summer sunlight shone on John's face, burning a little on his skin. Warming him. Warming his entire body through the heated clothing. He was relaxing on a wooden bench in Regent's Park, his eyes closed. Over by the pond, ducks quacked. Children's laughter from somewhere. Footfalls and scraps of conversation from people passing by on the adjacent gravel path. 

John listened to his own breathing. It was too shallow. That wasn't good. He needed to breathe deeply, fill his lungs all the way. But whenever he took a deeper breath, he felt the heavy lump that had settled in his chest. John sighed, tried to relax.

Sherlock.

John had fled Baker Street today again, gone to the park. Luckily the weather was good. That made it easy. He could sit here on the little bench next to the pond and let the sun beat down on him. That was all. All he wanted. All he was able to do. All he could stand. He hadn't written anything for his blog in four days. His head was empty. Nothing there. It was like he was in shock. John didn't understand himself. Didn't understand his own reaction.

Benjamin Waters was a client who had come to them with a simple case of fraud. A case Sherlock had solved on his own in two days while John had been on call at Bart's. Normal, routine. And then this Benjamin had stuck around. Stuck to Sherlock. But that wasn't what had sent John running. 

It was Sherlock's answer.

"Sherlock. You're interested in men?"

"Only one."

"Benjamin Waters."

"Isn't that obvious?"

And then Sherlock had left. Took his coat and left and not come back until the next day.

John had lain awake all night, trying to figure out what was happening with him. The thought that Sherlock could have taken up with another man scraped his heart raw. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock might love someone who was male. It was the fear of losing Sherlock. Losing his friend to someone who could offer more. Much more. Who could make him happy. Who would be Sherlock's confidant, his closest and most intimate companion in a way John would never be able to.

John had cried that night. He'd been astonished when he realised it. That he was mourning Sherlock as if he'd already lost him. 

The following day, he'd asked Sherlock, "Were you with Benjamin?"

Sherlock had given him a strange look before answering, "I accepted his invitation. As you suggested."

"Did you spend the night with him?"

"That doesn't concern you."

"I want it to."

"Why? I don't concern myself with your women."

"Oh, yes you do, Sherlock, you really do. You've stopped things from getting serious every single time."

"They were the wrong women."

"Maybe Benjamin's the wrong man."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Sherlock had then sat down in front of his laptop. John had studied him. There were no signs that Sherlock had had any sexual contact. No stains, no well-used lips, no foreign odour in his hair or clothes. Sherlock was the same as always. But appearances could be deceiving. Sherlock was a master of disguise.

Over the next few days, John avoided what went on at the flat. Following the early shift at Bart's A&E, he would go straight home, shower and change without checking whether Sherlock was there, whether he was sleeping or working, whether he was alone. At least there was no third toothbrush in the bathroom and no extra shaving paraphernalia. John would then leave the flat again as soon as possible, go into the city, have something to eat, go for a walk in the park, sit on a bench and doze. He wouldn't return to Baker Street until evening, when he would go straight up to his room and try to sleep in order to be fit bright and early for his next shift.

He had no idea where Sherlock was. No idea what Sherlock was doing. But he knew things couldn't continue like this. They needed to talk, he needed to face up to the situation. He needed to know whether Sherlock was opening up to this man, needed to come to terms with it if so. He needed to get straight for himself what it meant, for him and for Sherlock, for their friendship. And he needed to act, needed to take appropriate action if he couldn't deal with it. Possibly even move out of their flat. He couldn't and didn't want to stand in the way of Sherlock's happiness.

A shadow passed in front of the sun, tearing John out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes, looked up at the tall, slim figure standing in front of the bench, a halo of backlighted curls.

"May I join you?"

"Please."

Sherlock lowered himself to the bench beside John. Close to him. So close that their shoulders touched. John scooted away a bit, promptly creating a space between them. The touch made him ill, a wave of nausea passing through his entire body. He couldn't stand it. Not any more. Even though they'd often done that, sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, and he'd always enjoyed it. The pressure of Sherlock's body, the warmth. A sign of their familiarity and closeness.

They sat for a long time, not saying anything, warming themselves in the sun. 

Eventually, John asked, "What do you want?"

"There's a murder in Bishop's Avenue. Lestrade needs us."

"Bishop's Avenue? That's a filthy rich area."

"It's a filthy rich body."

Go with Sherlock to a crime scene? Act like everything was the same as always? John took a couple of calming breaths. Then he shook his head and said, "Greg needs YOU at the scene. You, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. Not me. And not us."

"But I, the great detective, need YOU, Dr John Watson. I would like you to take a look at the body."

"No, you don't need me. You have a guilty conscience, otherwise you wouldn't say things like that. And why are you here? You could have texted or called."

"I wanted to see you, John. You've hardly been in our flat for days. You sit here in the park for hours on end. You're avoiding me."

"Oh? You've noticed then?"

Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance. "Yes, of course. Of course I've noticed."

"That's new, isn't it? That you notice when I'm not there."

"Stop it, John. I need you. Lestrade says there's something off about the body. He's at the scene waiting for us."

John took a deep breath, took a couple of minutes to think about what he should do. He didn't particularly want to go with Sherlock, to work with him. But he also didn't want to punish him for what might be happening. He didn't want to punish him for Benjamin courting him. He didn't even know for certain whether Sherlock was going along with it, although he assumed so. If not, Sherlock would have told him, would have acted differently.

"John? Are you coming?"

"Fine," John said grudgingly. "I'll come along. But you don't have some sort of claim on my assistance. Just so that's clear."

"Yes, perfectly. Now come."

***

The perimeter of the crime scene was cordoned off. Flashing panda car lights, fire brigade, ambulance, forensics experts in protective suits. Lestrade was already waiting impatiently. The body lay on a blood-soaked carpet in the parlour of the villa. An older woman. She was on her side, her legs bent. That was highly unusual. Murder victims generally lay on their stomach if they'd been hit from behind and fallen forward. Or on their back if they'd been shot from the front and fallen backward. The fact that the woman was on her side indicated that she hadn't been dead when she fell. Or that she'd lain down herself. There was a huge incision in her abdomen, intestines spilling out. The woman was dressed entirely in black, very plain and simple. The long gray hair – surprisingly thick for her age – was gathered into a plait at the back of her head. Lady Deborah Kensington. The lady of the house and the owner of the villa. The domestic help had found her.

John examined the body. Together with Sherlock. The pale eyes constantly seeking his. The slender hands holding the magnifier. The scent of Sherlock's aftershave whenever their heads came close as they worked. John couldn't concentrate. The mass in his chest was heavy, had become heavier as they went on as if nothing had happened. For a moment, John thought it might be a relief to plunge a sword into his gut, slice himself open and let all the grief and heaviness flow out like the samurai used to do. End it. End this whole situation.

"John?"

Sherlock's expression was one of concern. A deep crease on his forehead. His eyes both questioning and anxious. It wasn't the body that worried Sherlock, John knew that. It wasn't the same as it used to be. It was different. Very different. For Sherlock too.

"It reminds me of harakiri," John said as neutrally as possible. "The body's quite fresh. The point of entry was just under the navel. It's deep, could be from a short sword. The weapon was drawn upwards with a jerk as far as the solar plexus but didn't reach the heart. She would have lived a couple of minutes."

"She was on her knees when she was slit open," Sherlock added. "But she didn't do it herself. She was killed. The question is why and by whom. And why in this manner. She didn't fight back."

"Voluntary manslaughter then? Not murder?" Lestrade asked.

"Can't tell yet. My money's on murder. But I need more facts," Sherlock replied.

***

John and Sherlock left the villa half an hour later. The conversation with the domestic – suffering heavily from shock – hadn't helped much. She had come back after her lunch break and found her employer, whom she had just spoken to that morning, in the parlour. The crime had taken place over lunchtime, while the maid was out. Whoever had done it must have known who was in the house when. That much was clear.

"Are you coming back to Baker Street?" Sherlock asked as they walked along the pavement.

"Is Benjamin there?"

"No. It's our flat, John. Yours and mine."

Well then. At least Sherlock had that much decency. Even if it was odd: Sherlock and decency didn't exactly go hand-in-hand.

"But something's going on with Benjamin Waters?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John grabbed his arm roughly, made him stop, and asked, "Sherlock. I have to know, you must understand that. Is there something going on between you and Benjamin?"

"That has nothing to do with us, John. With you and me."

"So there is?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. Several seconds passed before he nodded haltingly. He didn't look up again. John had thought that would be the answer. But now that it was out in the open, now that his fears had been confirmed, it was like he'd been hit over the head. John felt himself sway. He lowered his eyes, stared at the ground, and swallowed hard. Was he shaking? His fingers curled into fists.

"Fine," he said gruffly. "Good. That's all sorted then."

He walked away without looking at Sherlock, hailed a cab and rode to Baker Street. He'd pick up a few things and see where he could stay, at least for the time being.


	3. The First Trail

The worst part was the sense of being lost. The loneliness. John struggled with it. He felt as if he'd been left behind, thrown back to a time before Sherlock. A time with no sense of direction, a time of being alone. It was painful and made him confront the hopeless void he'd carried around with him for so long, which had gone away when Sherlock came into his life. Sherlock had filled it with presence, with attention, with care, with meaning. And now there was a gaping hole in its place. As if someone had torn out a piece of him. Sherlock had turned his back on him.

Of course, that kind of thinking flew directly in the face of the facts. John was aware of that. He knew that he was the one doing the avoiding. He knew he could go to Baker Street any time, that he still lived there and was welcome, that Sherlock was his friend. That he was trying harder with John than he ever had before. And yet. Yet. His life felt so empty and cold all of a sudden. Chilly. The warmth and attention sucked up by someone else. John felt it so keenly that it made something in his chest clench. It hurt. 

Were there two kinds of facts? Two truths? The truth in your head and the truth in your heart? John made up his mind to go see his therapist.

He'd taken a room for two nights in a little bed and breakfast. The first evening, he'd met a woman in the pub across the street, had flirted with her and ended up telling her about Sherlock. She'd comforted him, said that friendship was like a bouquet of emotions, each one with an individual arrangement. And that he and Sherlock should figure out what was part of their friendship and what wasn't.

"Go back and talk to him," she'd said.

If only it were that easy. John didn't know what he could say. He didn't even know what bothered him so much. He lay awake in a strange bed, far away from Baker Street. Far away from the smell of their common flat, from the sounds he'd become so used to. Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. The irregular tapping of the laptop keyboard mixed with the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Water gurgling in the pipes. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The refrigerator door opening and closing. The creak of the wooden floor beneath Sherlock's feet, the scent of tea, Sherlock's voice. The warmth and comfort of those evenings they spent quietly in the living room, each occupied with his own thing.

He yearned for those things. For Sherlock. Much more than he'd expected. And in a rather senseless and ridiculous manner. Because Sherlock was there. John would have liked nothing better than to go back to Baker Street right away. Should he? It was the middle of the night, almost morning or at least long past midnight. But the two of them had never cared about day and night. It didn't matter when there were things that needed doing. 

John picked up his mobile phone and entered a text message:

_Sherlock, are you awake? J_

John didn't expect an answer. But he got one:

_I'm out. S_

_Case? J_

_Benjamin. S_

John lowered the phone. It didn't make sense to go back to Baker Street. Sherlock wasn't there anyway. It didn't make sense to follow the instinct of his heart. Those were the cold, hard facts.

 

***

 

"What are you running away from, John?"

"I don't know."

"Think about it."

"I don't know. I can't think about it."

"What's stopping you?"

"Chaos. There's this chaos inside me."

Ella Thompson nodded, jotted down a note.

"Describe the chaos, John."

John closed his eyes. Looked inside. Everything was in motion, spinning, rumbling. He was irritated that he'd come to this therapy session. Damn it. He'd been sitting here for almost an hour and it was only getting worse, the disorder, the confusion inside him was getting greater and greater. _Describe the chaos, John._ Stupid! He wanted Sherlock back. That was all.

"I want Sherlock back," he said sullenly.

Right, that was good. It was true. That was what he wanted. Clearly and concisely summarised and stated. Ella didn't even look up.

"Go on," she insisted.

"I don't want him to see this Benjamin."

Benjamin was taking Sherlock away from him. That's how it was. He wanted Sherlock to give up the other man and devote all of his attention to him: John. Ella was waiting. Benjamin Waters was a good-looking, interesting man. John struggled with the picture that was forming in his head. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to imagine it. He tried to reduce it to words. No images. Bare words. Letters. A single sentence.

"He... I think he's sleeping with him."

He didn't succeed. Not a cold statement. A heat wave. It hit John so hard that he closed his eyes in confusion, dug his fingers into the armrest. He swooned. Sherlock's lean body nude in Benjamin's arms, Sherlock's slender fingers tangled in the blond hair, Sherlock's pale eyes filled with desire, his lips parted. John fought against the power of the image with everything he had. _Away! Damn it! Go away!_ John held back a gasp, struggled to maintain his grip. He was sitting in a chair at Ella Thompson's, in the middle of a therapy session. Get it together! John tried to rein in his frantic breaths.

Ella made a few notes, then waited. Finally, she said calmly, "You found something, John. Tell me about it."

 

***

 

"It's the same signature. The same murderer, no doubt. His M.O. appears to have a pattern." Lestrade pressed his lips together grimly. 

"No," Sherlock said sharply as he paced around the room, pulling open drawers, sticking his gloved fingers into nooks and running them over edges, examining everything in minute detail.

John looked up from the body he was in the middle of examining. It lay on the carpet in the living room, tipped over on its side from a kneeling position, the intestines spilling out. It was a young man this time, and he had died immediately. The sword, yanked up from bottom to top, had shredded his heart.

"It's probably even the same weapon," John said. "Exactly the same set-up. Posh neighbourhood, lunchtime, living room carpet, vic on their knees, no sign of a struggle."

"Yes, it's the same signature," Sherlock repeated grouchily. "Obviously. But there's no pattern behind it."

John's eyebrows shot up. Sherlock was annoyed, virtually asking for a fight. He'd snapped at both him and Lestrade several times as they'd gone through the crime scene.

"Any theories?" Lestrade asked.

"The killer's on a learning curve," John said before Sherlock could respond. "In order to reach the heart behind the ribcage, you have to push the sword up at an angle from underneath. That takes strength. If we assume the victim was kneeling, the killer must have been unusually strong in order to cause this particular injury."

"Or the sword was unusually sharp," Sherlock said.

"Or both," John added.

They looked at each other, just for a fraction of a second, before Sherlock's eyes skittered away.

"In classic seppuku, the person jams the sword into their abdomen themselves," John said pensively. "In most cases, that's not enough, so a trusted person will stand by and save their friend from further suffering by beheading them quickly. A final token of their affection."

"That's not what happened here," Sherlock said belligerently.

John stood up. "No, that's not what happened here. But the murderer's perfected their method in order to kill the victim quickly." John took off the latex gloves and added, "Which is also a sign of affection, even if wasn't meant that way."

John heard himself talking, heard the cynical undertone as well. It gave him a sense of satisfaction. The look on Sherlock's face, the brief flutter of uncertainty. 

John said to him coolly, "I know you don't understand anything about friendship and tokens of affection. But the information may still be helpful for your genius deductions."

After a brief moment of bewilderment, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'll see you back at Baker Street," he said. 

He took off the protective gloves, tossed them carelessly on the floor, and left the room. In the doorway, he paused and turned around to say to Lestrade, "I'll contact you, Inspector."

Then he was gone. 

Lestrade shook his head unhappily. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd keep your arguments at home rather than bringing them to a crime scene," he said, annoyed.

"That will probably take care of itself," John said bitterly as he removed the paper coverall on the way out into the hall, where he handed it to one of the security men.

"What's that supposed to mean now?" Lestrade called after him.

But John merely raised his hand in a silent good-bye and left the house.

It was still warm outside this late in the summer. It would be autumn soon. The leaves of the sycamores were starting to turn. They would glow golden yellow before long. But the wind would tear them from the branches, the rain would glue them to the gutters, and life would roll on over them. 

John shook off the sudden bout of melancholy. The case was interesting. It re-awakened old memories. John had studied karate when he was at uni. The state of mind that led to ritual suicide wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him. The inner peace and clarity that he'd sometimes felt during his training sessions and that he missed so much in his current life. Maybe he should take it up again. It was a good time to start something new. A good time to attend to his inner balance. Inside and out. Only fight when there's no other option. The most important rule in Sensei Nakajima's dojo. It had nothing to do with asserting yourself. The karateka had nothing to prove, neither to himself nor to others. 

John walked along the boulevard, lost in thought. He remembered the mat chats his master had held:

_"You're walking along the street when three men approach you and block your path. What do you do?"_

_"Greet them and go around them."_

_"What if they continue to harrass you?"_

_"Ask what you can do for them."_

_"And if they want to fight you?"_

_"Run away. You're faster."_

Only fight those fights that are unavoidable. Easier said than done. Was there a fight here that he couldn't avoid? One for Sherlock? No. There was no fight for Sherlock. There was only a fight against himself, against the confusion inside him, against this pain. Against these feelings. John's mouth twisted in a wry smile. 

Sensei Nakajima had once said, "The karateka fears only himself. For good reason."

 

***

 

The flat at Baker Street smelled the same as ever. It was as dusty and messy as ever. The empty coffee cups lying around testified to the fact that nothing had changed. Sherlock didn't clear them away. John did. Or Mrs Hudson, who came once a week to clean and make sure everything was in order. 

And Sherlock was at his laptop waiting for him, just like always.

"Look at this, John," he said without any introduction, without even glancing up.

John slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. He went over to Sherlock and looked over his shoulder. Sherlock had highlighted a word in the autopsy report: Sufentanil.

"Lady Deborah Kensington had quite a lot of it in her blood," he said. "She'd either injected herself or been injected with it before she died. She was prepared."

"The strongest opioid there is," John mused. "And the most recent vic also had a fresh injection mark on his arm. Want to bet the autopsy will turn up Sufentanil?"

Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes. "You could be right, John, with your token of affection."

Two heartbeats passed. Sherlock's expression was guileless. A dialogue in mere fractions of a second, far in the background: questions. Questions without answers. Emotions. John broke off the eye contact and said, his voice raw, "Sufentanil is used during anaesthesia. You can't just buy it at the chemist's. Is there any connection between the two victims?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not yet. We don't know much about the man from today. Twenty-eight years old, excellent cook. He worked as the chef's assistant at Gordon Ramsay. Three Michelin stars. Best address in London, Royal Hospital Road. He was a prodigy with good chances at making a career of it. Single, lived in his parents' villa. Parents always spend the summer in the country. The cleaning woman found him."

"Lady Kensington lives alone too, right? Did they know each other? Someone like Lady Kensington could afford to eat at a place like that, couldn't she?"

"She could have, but she hardly ever went out, and when she did it was to the theatre or a concert. She had a lady's companion who spent nearly every evening with her. Her driver tells the same story."

"You need me because of the Sufentanil, I guess? Because it's a medical clue."

John didn't know why he said it. He was relaxed. They were working together. Sherlock was acting the same as he always did. John stood behind him and sniffed. He smelled stale, no longer fresh. Used up.

"No," Sherlock said. It came out very gentle. "No, John. You know that."

Less than a second later, he went on, his eyes now sparkling at the prospect of a new adventure: "We'll have dinner at Gordon Ramsay tonight. Yes, that's what we're going to do. Come on, fancy yourself up, John!"

John laughed and shook his head. "Do you know what that place costs?"

"We have a sponsor!" Sherlock waved a credit card triumphantly under John's nose.


	4. The Pastry Chef

The wine was so expensive that John tried to forget the number he'd seen on the menu. Sherlock had chosen it. To accompany the main course. Before that, they'd had a light white with their appetisers and an excellent chardonnay with the fish and lobster. You couldn't get away with fewer than seven courses here. 

The red went so well with the lamb that John took a second appreciative sip to roll it around in his mouth. A rich bouquet of aromas, astonishingly well balanced, the blend of flavours strikingly gentle and harmonic, the finish superbly well-rounded and satisfying, smooth and fading evenly. Like an orgasm that leaves a deep feeling of tenderness and satisfaction behind. An adventure that concludes with a blissful smile. 

John closed his eyes for a moment, the glass still in his hand. When he opened them again, his gaze met Sherlock's. Sherlock smiled. Not saying anything, just smiling. John realised his mouth was still partly open, his lips tingling from the wine, its presence lingering on his breath. Utter, perfect beauty.

They were sitting in Gordon Ramsay, the table for two set in a simple white. A handful of wild roses matched the pale mauve of the chairs. Candles. Everything muted and calm, the servers discreet and understated. The atmosphere around them a sheath of satin. The food a cornucopia of the finest highlights for the senses, for the eye and nose as well as for the palate. John had never enjoyed such a perfect meal before. And then there was the peace. The peace between them, between him and Sherlock. A complete, sensual, fulfilling peace.

Sherlock was quieter than usual. John had wanted to ask him questions, to talk to him about Benjamin, about their life together, about everything that was bothering him. But he couldn't bring himself to cleave apart the intimacy that so clearly existed between them on this evening. An illusion of intimacy that verged on romantic, here in these surroundings. The depth of the ice-blue eyes that appeared so unexpectedly warm in the light of the candles. They talked about this and that, chatting casually. They praised the food and the cooking, the wine, the evening. They also discussed the case, but only briefly. To an observer, they must have looked like a couple, a couple who were in love and giving each other their undivided attention.

John enjoyed the evening, tried to do so without thinking of anything else. But then when he put down the glass of red wine, replete with those aromas, all of his senses wide open, his eyes locked on Sherlock's, and he was hit with the sudden realisation that this was good-bye. A quiet good-bye. It wasn't Sherlock who was leaving. It was him. He was letting Sherlock go. Now that he knew Sherlock wasn't alone any more, that there was someone who would catch him with loving arms. He would allow Sherlock to go his own way, wherever that might be, be a friend to him as long as he needed. And then cut all ties when it became necessary. It was a surprisingly persuasive solution. He, John, would simply take everything that came. Carry it in his heart and endure it.

It was as if time stood still. The silence expanded, filled the space between them. There was something in Sherlock's eyes that John had never seen there before. Wonder, perhaps, an intense fascination that stirred something in him. They looked into each other's eyes. A long time. Then John ended the detente by reaching for his wine glass again and lifting it, holding it up to Sherlock. Sherlock raised his as well. The glasses touched. A high, clear note. John had wanted to say something affectionate: _to us!_ or _to friendship!_ but the words didn't come. They just looked at each other. The wine released its full bouquet in John's mouth, spread out in an explosion of sensation that flowed through his body, full and warm. John felt a sadness come over him, making tears shoot into his eyes. 

He set the glass down, held the white linen serviette over his face for a moment. Then he said to Sherlock in a low voice, feeling trapped by their closeness, "Excuse me a moment."

Sherlock nodded soberly. John stood and went out into the late summer's night.

John walked a few paces, took a deep breath of the night air, let the wind cool his head, wiped his eyes dry with a tissue. So this was how it ended. How the thing ended that he had thought was inviolable. That he'd thought was home, a happiness that would last forever. That he'd never questioned. And now he'd done it, after a bit of thrashing and struggling. He felt that he loved enough to let go. It was a surprisingly light, intense feeling. He'd made the decision. Not with his head, but with his heart. He would simply spread his hands and let fate take the reins from him. Keeping nothing back. 

John pressed the tissue to his eyes. Damn. He was a bloody drama queen. No better than Sherlock. They were tears of grief and of victory over himself. Maybe tears of love. John allowed himself the right to them. The rock-hard, painful knot inside him had dissolved. It was like being set free. He could breathe. He was filled with a deep, all-encompassing, gently burning warmth. John leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. Did you need to let go in order to feel so deeply? So pure, so certain, so open? John decided to discuss it with Ella. Right now he needed to be getting back. Sherlock was waiting. And the excellent lamb was getting cold. That would be a shame.

John hadn't even stepped away from the tree when he heard a shot go off. Several shots. They came from Gordon Ramsay. John set off running. He was only a short distance away from the restaurant but when he got there, the dining room was full of panicked guests. Sherlock wasn't at their table. Of course not. The maître d' was leaning against one of the pillars, as pale as a ghost. John grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. 

"Where?" he barked.

"Kitchen," the man said.

"Call the police!"

John stormed into the kitchen. Excitement and screaming. Broken dishes, food and pots on the floor. One of the cooks hat been hit on the hip by a ricochet. She sat on the floor, one of the other employees was helping her.

"They went out the back way," the woman gasped when John checked the injury quickly and found it wasn't dangerous.

"Who?"

"A guest. The pastry chef got into it with him and his assistant tried to help."

"Who was shooting?"

"I don't know."

John ran through the kitchen, the pastry chef's station at the back. Chocolate, the scent of vanilla and citrus. Blood on the floor. A trail of drops out the back exit. John ran out into the back yard. No one. The gate was open. John flung himself through it, out onto Swan Walk, listened to the night.

"Sherlock!"

No response.

"Sherlock!"

Nothing.

John ran back into the kitchen.

"A torch, quickly."

Someone handed him one. Back. Drops of blood on the ground. One of them must have been hit. John followed the trail. Along Swan Walk, Chelsea Physic Garden. John climbed over the wall, a smear of blood visible. Green on the other side. Botanical Garden. The trail got lost amongst plants and trees.

"Sherlock!"

No answer. John flashed the torch around the park, shone it behind bushes and trees. Realising it was hopeless, he went back to the restaurant. All hell had broken loose there. The police had arrived in the meantime. Lestrade had reacted quickly and driven ahead, aware that the sous-chef of this very establishment had been murdered only a few hours earlier. 

They followed the bloody trail with a canine unit. It ended on the other side of the Botanical Garden, down by the Thames. John tried to reach Sherlock again, but his phone was dead.

 

***

 

John woke up when he heard a sound coming from the stairs. Early dawn scattered its dim light through the two living room windows. John had dozed off on the couch. He'd gone back to 221B Baker Street after the excitement at Gordon Ramsay in the hopes of finding Sherlock there. But the flat was empty. John had tried to find Benjamin Waters' phone number and address. Maybe Sherlock had gone to him. But he hadn't been able to find any Benjamin Waters that quickly, and had ended up just lying down.

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson's voice out in the hall. John jumped up and rushed out. Sherlock was hanging onto the railing with Mrs Hudson trying to hold him up.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was weak, but his relief was clear. His face was smeared with dirt and blood, his hair matted. The left sleeve of his suit was bloody. Sherlock groaned when John grabbed him around the hips and hauled him up to the living room. The bullet had torn open Sherlock's lower arm but had only damaged the skin and muscle. More luck than skill. A flesh wound, small calibre. The scrape on his head was full of dirt. John injected a painkiller and antibiotics, cleaned, irrigated, disinfected, bandaged, shaved hair off, and stitched.

"We should still have that arm x-rayed," he said once the wounds had been taken care of.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just lifted one hand limply before he drifted off right there on the couch.

John cleared away the bloody towels and cloths, the needles and other medical paraphernalia. Sherlock's mobile phone had fallen onto the floor. John picked it up and set it on the table. The display was shattered and the device didn't make any sounds anymore. Sherlock would need a new one.

Lestrade was relieved when he received John's call along with the message that Sherlock was at Baker Street. And he had some preliminary results. The pastry chef and his assistant, a young woman, were missing. One of them must have been the shooter. Judging by the calibre, it was a small weapon, which tended to speak for the woman. According to witnesses, Sherlock had gone into the kitchen and asked to speak to the pastry chef, at which point the man and his assistant had fled out the back door and shot at Sherlock.

"Is there any connection to the two murders?" John asked.

"Not yet. Aside from the obvious: the male vic worked with the pastry chef."

"Nothing else?"

"No, we haven't really got any further."

 

***

 

"Oh, you didn't go along?" Mrs Hudson asked in surprise when John came back home from his shift at Bart's two days later and met their landlady on the stairs.

"Sorry? What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson?"

"Sherlock! I thought the two of you went to France."

John shook his head, chuckling. "Not that I know of. I wasn't planning on going to France. What makes you think that?"

"Sherlock left this afternoon. He said you were going to France for a couple of days."

"Now, in the middle of a case, with an injury? I don't think so."

"I told him he shouldn't be travelling in his condition, but he said he was taking a minder along. That's why I thought it was the two of you."

Now John was confused. Had Sherlock really gone on a trip? Without telling him? With injuries that needed to be tended? In the middle of a case? No, it wasn't possible. Maybe he had gone somewhere for the case and lied to Mrs Hudson. Or he was with Benjamin and hadn't wanted to tell her.

"Was anyone else here?" John asked.

"No, I was here all day and didn't see anyone."

"All right, I'll take care of it, Mrs Hudson," John said as calmly as possible.

The flat upstairs was empty. No Sherlock. The laptop was still in the living room. The usual pig sty in the bedroom. His travel bag was gone. Dirty dishes in the kitchen. As usual. John tossed his jacket onto the couch with a sigh and went to the table. There was a note stuck to his laptop.

_With Benjamin in south of France. Need some time for myself. S_

John sank down onto the chair and stared off into space. That was unexpectedly painful. They'd wanted to go to France, to the coast in the south, the two of them: he and Sherlock. For a long time now. But something had always come up. They'd never managed it. And Sherlock would never, ever have given up a case for it. Benjamin was more important than the case. So. That's how it was. 

John bit his lip. It hurt. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. The warmth and darkness felt good; the touch. John tried to take deep, even breaths and locate the feeling that had filled him that night at Gordon Ramsay. Letting go. It changed more than he'd thought. Sherlock's typical thrill at the criminal chase faded at Benjamin's side, made room for other things. More important things. Maybe Sherlock was happy, truly happy for the first time in his life. 

John held a tissue to his eyes. He couldn't stop the tears, simply let them flow. Something clawed at his guts, threatening to tear them out of his body. Keep breathing, nice and calm. Breathe slow and easy and let whatever is happening, happen. Remain centred. Like the samurai. Victory or death. Both were acceptable. Both were a path. 

Everything was fine just the way it was.


	5. Benjamin

John's lungs burned. He was wheezing. Final stretch. Give it everything, one last time. Hang in there. Good. Run it out. John walked another few steps, then stopped. His legs hurt. Everything hurt. He gasped for air. A glance at his watch. He'd got faster. Perfect. The five days of running practise were already having an effect. He'd picked up his old circuit around Regent's Park every evening again. It felt good: the discipline, getting moving again. 

Then back home for a shower, his circulation activated, his mind alert, satisfied with his efforts, something to eat, enough sleep. That made it easier to bear. Made the emptiness more bearable, helped to fill it with his own things.

John had taken on more shifts at Bart's after Sherlock left, worked more than necessary. It was a good distraction, good to live his own life again, to concentrate on what he was and what he could do. To orientate himself by himself again. It sobered John to realise how much he'd assimilated to Sherlock. In everything. To Sherlock and his work, his habits. He'd taken on Sherlock's life, his rhythm. He'd forgot that he wasn't a night owl like Sherlock, that he used to go to bed earlier and get up earlier. That he felt healthier when he ate regularly and did sports every day.

It was already dusk by the time John returned home from his run. He stopped in front of the green door of 221B, surprised. Sherlock was back. He knew it right away even if there were no obvious signs. There weren't any lights on in the flat. Nothing had changed. Sherlock hadn't let him know he was returning. John had expected him to stay away longer. They'd barely had any contact over the past few days, maybe two or three trivial texts. Strange, these subconscious levels of perception. John was absolutely certain that Sherlock was there. 

He wasn't wrong, either. Sherlock was sitting at the table in front of his laptop in the dim living room, illuminated only by the failing light from outside. He looked up when John came in.

"Running?" he asked without any further greeting.

"Yeah. Welcome back, Sherlock."

"You're exercising regularly again?"

"Yeah, I've taken it up again."

"Good."

Sherlock returned to his laptop.

"What about you?" John asked. "How are you doing?"

"Fine. Good."

John observed how Sherlock sat at the table, sombre, closed off, his expression hard. His posture was anything but relaxed, there was something sullen about his typing. Sherlock was lying. He was far from fine.

"No," John said.

"What, no?"

"You're not fine."

"Why do you ask if you know better anyway?"

An undercurrent of irritation in Sherlock's tone. He didn't look up from his laptop, just kept writing. John stayed where he was a few more seconds, considering, wondering whether he should go over to Sherlock, engage him more directly, touch him. But he decided against it and went to take a shower instead.

John took a long, thorough shower, just as he had every other evening recently. He made sure to clean everything off his body that wasn't part of him. At the same time, he cleansed himself of everything on the inside that wasn't part of him. That was part of his process of letting go and finding himself. Ella had recommended it to him, and it worked. A kind of ritual cleansing. Twice in the past five days, he'd masturbated in the shower, imagining what it would be like to sleep with Sherlock. He hadn't examined it any closer. He'd just done it. If that was one of the things he had to let go of, then so be it. It made him aware of how closely he'd tied himself to Sherlock on so many levels. Including that impenetrable level that he'd never thought possible. Sherlock, the asexual creature, had haunted his fantasies ever since he'd found out that his flatmate did have a sexuality after all. And lived it with a man.

John let the hot water beat down on him. Sherlock had always been more important than all the women he'd slept with. He'd never really been aware of it before. He'd blamed all sorts of things for the fact that nothing ever came of his associations with women. But he'd never blamed Sherlock. Or himself. Or their friendship. That was why it was so important now to discover those things and let them go.

Sherlock was still at his laptop when John went into the kitchen fresh from his shower and made himself something to eat.

"Do you want a sandwich too?" he asked Sherlock.

"No. Leave me alone."

Right, then. Sherlock really wasn't in a very good mood. Had something happened with Benjamin? John sat down at the kitchen table, ate his sandwich, drank water and tea. He squashed the idea that Sherlock and Benjamin might have had a falling out, extinguished the spark of hope that sprang to life inside him. He had no right to have thoughts like that. Sherlock was his friend. He wanted Sherlock to be happy.

John poured himself a whisky after he was done eating. He stood at the threshold between the kitchen and living room holding his whisky glass and watching Sherlock, still at his laptop, now in the dark. The only illumination was the cold light of the monitor flickering blue on his face, making it appear even more off-putting and foreign. 

John went back to the kitchen and poured another glass of whisky. He turned the light on in the living room, went over to Sherlock and set the glass down on the table next to the nervous fingers that flew relentlessly across the keyboard.

"Looks like you could use that," he said.

Sherlock paused for a moment and looked up. He met John's eyes for the first time since he'd returned from France.

"Yes. Thank you, John."

Sherlock took a gulp, then continued writing. John leaned against the table, stood in front of Sherlock as he sipped at his own drink, looking down at his friend. Sherlock looked drained; tired.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" he asked gently.

"Nothing."

"Did something happen with Benjamin?"

"That's not your concern."

Sherlock's fingers flitted over the keys and he didn't look up again. John turned his gaze away from his friend's hardened features. Sherlock was so distant. Unfamiliar. A thread had severed between them. The bridge that had connected them for so long had collapsed. John turned the glass around in his hand, pensive.

"Why are you shutting me out?" he asked. And when no answer was forthcoming: "I thought we were friends." The bitterness and sadness in his voice shocked even him.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing. He slowly lifted his hands away from the keyboard. Then he sank back in his chair, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Several seconds passed. Long seconds, the silence of the living room between them. 

Then Sherlock said, almost in a whisper, "I'm sorry, John."

John nodded. 

Following a few more seconds of silence, Sherlock said, "Yes, we're friends. I know. I know." He took another deep, heavy breath before continuing, his eyes uncertainly seeking John's. "I've lost my orientation, John. I... can't cope."

"With what?"

"Emotions. I don't know what friendship is anymore, what's expected of me. What I need to do. I can't differentiate anymore between..." Sherlock fell silent.

"Between friendship and love," John said.

"Yes." A flicker in the icy blue of Sherlock's eyes. It took several heartbeats before his eyes focused on John again. He said in a low, musing tone, "A couple of weeks ago, I was certain there was no need to distinguish between the two."

John stared at the blue eyes. They were warmer now, approachable. Sherlock's statement both touched and surprised him.

"And it's necessary now?"

"I don't know. Yes. Somehow. No. I don't know." A strobe light of contradictory emotions in Sherlock's eyes. Then he asked, "Do you differentiate between them?"

Sherlock's eyes, wide open like a child's. Innocent. Curious. Anxious. They'd rebuilt the bridge. Sherlock was here. Here with him. Close. John felt warm inside.

"I can't separate them," he said. John knew what he was saying. They held each other's gaze. A long time.

"Would you do something for me, John?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"What?"

"I'd like you to meet Benjamin."

John lowered his eyes, looked at the rim of his glass.

"So it's serious then, hm?"

"It is for me."

John nodded, not speaking. He didn't look up.

"It would be a great help to me to see the two of you together," Sherlock said.

John took a long, deep breath, tried to remain centred, wholly inside himself. Tried to understand what it was that Sherlock needed. Tried to accept it with love.

"Okay," he said softly.

Sherlock's eyes soft, as John had never seen them before. Soft and uncertain. They'd never looked into each other's eyes like that before. So long. So earnest, so deep. And they'd never talked to each other like that before. About love. An unfamiliar topic.

 

***

 

The pub was quite full now that it was evening. Sherlock sat there, tense, his fingers drumming on the table next to the whisky glass.

"Nervous?" John asked.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"No."

"You're quiet."

"I'm thinking."

"I see."

John gave him a small smile. "I don't think you do, Sherlock."

"You'd be wrong."

John didn't reply, took a sip of his whisky.

"You're afraid of losing me," Sherlock said quietly, out of the blue. "And I'm afraid of losing you. That's why it's important for you to meet Benjamin."

"Here he comes."

Benjamin approached them, beaming. "Sherlock," he whispered as he leaned down, put his arm around Sherlock's neck and hugged him, pressed his face against Sherlock's temple, just briefly. Sherlock's reaction, the return caress with accompanying sigh, their fingers brushing, the way Sherlock gazed into the other man's blue eyes, it all left no doubt whatsoever that the two of them were intimate. John watched, taken aback. He'd never seen Sherlock so relaxed and affectionate.

"John. It's nice to finally meet you."

Benjamin's handshake was firm and warm, his smile genial. He sat down with them at the little square table so that he was catty-corner to John, across from Sherlock. John was surprised for a moment. He'd assumed Benjamin would sit next to Sherlock and across from him. 

Benjamin seemed to have read John's mind. He smiled at him and said, "I'll sit next to you if you don't mind."

"Yeah, sure. No problem. I just didn't expect it."

Benjamin laughed. "I'd like to avoid a confrontation with you, John. Even over something like seating arrangements."

"Are you that scared of me?" John asked, smirking.

"Not of you. Of Sherlock!"

Benjamin's eyes flashed with amusement. They both laughed, John and Benjamin. Sherlock didn't seem to find it especially funny. He observed the scene mutely.

John had already seen Benjamin Waters, just briefly, as a client at Baker Street. A man around Sherlock's age, short blond hair, quick blue eyes, fit body. He'd worn a suit that time, very proper, reserved yet polite speech patterns.

Now, in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair slightly longer and mussed, Benjamin looked younger. Almost coltish with his bubbly congeniality. He was open and chatty, so it was easy to talk to him. He virtually pelted John with questions, asking about his work as a doctor, about his time in Afghanistan. John was reserved with his answers. Sherlock had apparently told Benjamin quite a lot about him.

"I think I know just about everything about you," Benjamin joked. "Sherlock's constantly talking about you."

"You have me at an advantage then," John countered. "For some reason, he hasn't told me anything about you."

Benjamin turned serious all of a sudden. A shadow passed across his blue eyes. He lowered his gaze briefly, then looked up again. His eyes quickly scanned Sherlock's before returning to John. He said slowly, "I believe there are good reasons for that." A long, searching look into John's eyes. Then Benjamin asked, his voice gentle, "What do you want to know about me?"

Benjamin was a psychologist and worked for an institution that provided personality profiles, mainly for large companies who sent their applicants for assessments. Benjamin told some stories about his workaday life. He spoke respectfully about the people he met in the course of his work, painting a lively picture of them. And yet the conversation remained superficial. John found it tiring. 

Sherlock barely took part in the conversation at all, left everything up to John and Benjamin. John couldn't shake the feeling that they were doing all this for Sherlock's sake, he and Benjamin, that they were smiling and chatting, keeping everything superficial and uncomplicated, all the while they were facing off in the background, as solid as two mountains pressing up against each other. All the unspoken questions they were both all too aware of, and which tortured them both. John saw it flickering in Benjamin's eyes, only for split seconds here and there, the exhaustion, the senselessness of what they were doing here. John wondered for a few seconds whether he should break the spell, whether he should ask Benjamin about his and Sherlock's relationship, but then didn't. It was too sensitive a topic. And John realised he was going to have to ask Sherlock those things if he wanted to know them, not Benjamin.

The time flew by, and John decided to cut things short with the excuse that he needed to get up early the next day. A questioning look at Sherlock, who remained sitting pale and withdrawn on his chair, looking anything other than happy.

"I'll stay with Benjamin," Sherlock said.

Benjamin stood up to say good-bye to John and shook his hand. "It was nice meeting you, John. I guess we'll be seeing each other quite a lot from now on."

John took the Tube. He shook his head when he thought about what he'd done. Had it been nice to meet Benjamin? What had he expected? That it would have to be a very special – an extraordinary – man who had succeeded in winning Sherlock over? An average psychologist. Young, good-looking, straightforward. But there was something else. A feeling that he hadn't seen the man Benjamin truly was. Odd. What had Sherlock wanted to get out of the pub evening?

 

***

 

_Can you come? S_

_It's 4 in the morning! Where? J_

_Brunel University, Kingston Lane entrance. S_

_Why? J_

_Another body. I need you, John. S_

_Okay. 40 minutes. J_

_Thank you! See you there. S_


	6. The Magic Spell

The young woman lay on the strip of grass next to the path leading to the sports complex at Brunel University. She was on her stomach, two massive stab wounds in her back, one of them lethal. John examined her body. Sherlock was right: the injuries were so smooth and deep that they might have come from a short sword, the same weapon with which the other two victims had been killed. But this time the victim had been stabbed from behind. Apparently on her way home after a workout. 

She was a sports major at the Institute of Life Sciences, according to the student ID she had on her. She was also the pastry chef's assistant from Gordon Ramsay. She'd only worked there for a couple of days, under a false name, and hadn't turned up again after the incident. She was probably the one who had shot at Sherlock.

Lestrade was sure this murder was connected to the other two, and to the pastry chef's disappearance. Sherlock agreed. There was no sign of a struggle in this case either.

"Can you take a short walk with me, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course. What is it?"

"The perpetrator must have been walking beside her. She knew him, he must have been familiar to her. They walked together for a short ways, just as we are now. If you wanted to stab me right now, John, how would you go about it?"

They were walking away from the crime scene at a casual pace. John considered.

"I'd get you talking about something, bring up a topic that upsets you, something that sets you off. I'd try to distract you, to confuse you."

"Do it. Try to stab me."

"Here?"

"Where else? I need to know if it's possible to jam a short sword into someone's back while having a private conversation, without them fighting back."

"Okay. Yeah, yeah, I think it's possible," John said thoughtfully as they walked on, now reaching a fork in the road. John rested his hand lightly on Sherlock's back, nudged him toward the paved path which led to the campus.

"You know," he mused, "I think this whole thing is like what's going on with Benjamin and you. And with me. Mustn't forget about me now, right?" John's hand was now between Sherlock's shoulderblades. "I'm much closer to you than you think. We're familiar with each other. So familiar that I can touch you whenever I want to, and you allow it. I can distract you with my touch."

"What are you doing, John? You're supposed to stab me."

John's hand slid up to the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers brushing the skin there. "I can touch you whenever I want." John's hand ran down Sherlock's back, slow and possessive. He was whispering the words now, whispering them close to Sherlock's ear. "I could take you. Do you feel it? Do you feel me?" John dug his fingers into Sherlock's flesh. Explicitly. 

They'd slowed down, but John didn't let Sherlock stop moving entirely. 

"I can seduce you, Sherlock, and you won't be able to resist. We both know that, don't we?"

John was now whispering directly into Sherlock's ear. He could smell the other man's skin, feel its humidity. And he gave in to the tingling in his own body. The energy needed to transfer over, the excitement, the confusion. Their bodies close together. John slipped his hand into the tangled curls, no hesitation, made a fist. Sherlock shivered.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock's voice was rough and unsteady.

John slowly let go, trailed his hand down Sherlock's neck, down his back, down, pulled Sherlock closer, all the time gently nudging his friend forwards. He himself felt secure; safe and warm and full of energy and desire. His heart was thudding rapidly. That was good. It needed to reach Sherlock.

"It's been true for a long time, Sherlock. We both know it. We just didn't want to see it. You feel it too, don't you? Your body reacting to mine, to how close we are. Sherlock." John's whisper a sussuration, dark and confident in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's breaths were fast and irregular. Objective achieved.

John stopped walking, calmly, shot his left hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck, hot and demanding, grabbed a handful of curls, shoved Sherlock's head forward, at the same time reaching with his right hand to pull the short sword out of his belt. A single, smooth motion, the thrust following through on the twist of his torso, precise and incredibly fast – John pounded his fist once on Sherlock's back – another twist, a twirl, a faint exhale on the last, final thrust. John let his fist rest on the spot where he'd simulated the stabbings. He was breathing hard from the exertion.

"You're dead, Sherlock. If I'd handled the short sword like our karate master, you'd be a goner." John laughed when he saw Sherlock's dumbfounded expression. "The right topic, you get confused and forget to defend yourself. Even when you know you're supposed to be paying attention. And one other thing: it doesn't take much strength. All you need is speed and skill. We were wrong when we thought whoever was wielding the sword had to be strong. I should have realised."

"So it could have been a slight person too?"

"Absolutely. They'd have to be well trained, though. Coming up with that kind of speed from a standstill is extremely strenuous."

"And it was someone trusted, someone who could lull her into emotional complacency and get close to her without prompting a defensive attitude."

"I think so. But it's just a theory."

"And the perpetrator didn't need to see what they were doing, since they could take all the time they needed to feel out the site," Sherlock added thoughtfully.

"Exactly. They would need some knowledge of anatomy, though."

"Which a sports major would have."

"Or a doctor."

"Or someone who simply read up on it."

John shook his head. "I think it would take more than book knowledge. It would take practise. Confidence with touching the body."

"And our murderer is a martial arts expert."

"No question."

"They could have simply attacked from behind."

"The injuries are too calm and precise for that. Plus, there's nowhere to lay in wait for someone where the victim was found."

They were still standing a short distance away from the scene, close together in the first glimmer of dawn. Sherlock used one hand to smooth his hair down, as it had been mussed during the demonstration. Their eyes met.

"That was... rather impressive, John," Sherlock said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

John smirked. It felt good to be able to unbalance Sherlock. And apparently there were topics which made that possible.

"I'm a soldier and studied karate for long enough." John smiled smugly.

"Thank you. Thank you, John. You've given me some incredibly useful information."

Sherlock laid a hand shyly on John's shoulder, just for a moment, to let him know they should return to Lestrade's crew and the body.

 

***

 

John was on call, otherwise he would have gone with Sherlock to the Yard. The case was exciting, and slowly but surely the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Traces of drugs had been found at the pastry chef's station in Gordon Ramsay. And they now had verification that the first victim, Lady Deborah Kensington, had a standing order for pastries from that same restaurant. The celebrated young cook had also frequently enjoyed sampling his colleague's creations. Lestrade had issued a search warrant for the missing pastry chef, which had, however, not yet been fruitful. The confections and drugs were only one of the trails, the master swordsman was the other. The young sports student enabled them to make a connection to the martial arts milieu at any rate. Her main focus was on athletics, but she'd lived on campus with other sports majors including one who practised martial arts.

John was a little annoyed now that he'd agreed to take on so many shifts at Bart's. But the flare-up of irritation also made him realise that he was starting to live Sherlock's life again. One interesting case and he got antsy. Was it the case that was so tempting? Or was it Sherlock? Would he be just as enthusiastic about criminal investigations if it weren't Sherlock, but Lestrade, for example? Or any other detective, even one who was equally gifted as Sherlock? John didn't know how to answer the question. He solved cases with Sherlock. The two things were so closely intertwined that it was all but impossible to examine them separately. Maybe – if Sherlock ever started solving cases with Benjamin, who could certainly be useful to him as a psychologist – would he, John, still help Lestrade if asked? Yes, sure. He would. Even without Sherlock. It felt good to get things like that straight in his mind.

After his shift came a therapy session with Ella. John saw her twice a week. She helped him sort through what was happening. Helped him understand himself. He told her about meeting Benjamin and about the events at the crime scene, that he'd intimated to Sherlock that he would seduce him.

"Why that particular topic?" Ella asked in her usual calm, almost disinterested way.

John knew her outward lassitude was deceptive. Ella was an astute bloodhound who always homed in on the target.

"It was the first thing that occurred to me," John answered. "The topic was hovering right there on the surface. I had to touch him, establish contact to guide his body into the attack without him defending himself. To be honest, I didn't really give it much thought."

"How did you feel?"

"It was fun."

"What about it was fun, exactly?"

"Confusing him. It was a feeling of... power." John smiled to himself. "When I was a kid, I used to come up with magic spells. Then I'd conjure up the things I wished for and make things that scared me disappear."

"And did the spells work?"

John laughed. "Kind of. I was always convinced they did. It was the same with Sherlock. I was sure it would work."

"You knew you had the right spell."

"Somehow, yeah. I didn't even think to question it."

Ella nodded, made a note. John was still amused, thinking about what he'd done. It cheered him up, unleashed a kind of cockiness in him.

"Where does that happiness in you come from?" Ella asked.

Happiness. Yes. Yes, that good feeling, that cheerfulness, could be happiness. John turned his focus inward. Went through the scene again. He remembered every second of it. He could still feel exactly how he'd been able to lead Sherlock, to draw him into a state of confusion. Yes, it was a feeling of happiness. He'd touched Sherlock, whispered unambiguous things in his ear. It had felt good. And Sherlock had reacted. He'd... John felt the realisation suddenly crash over him, like a bubble bursting. Hot water flooding over him. Then icy cold.

"What have you discovered, John?"

"I did something..." John faltered. It couldn't be. But it felt inside as if he'd just cut through the Gordian knot. He swallowed hard. "I did something," he recapitulated, his voice filled with disbelief, "that I always wanted to do?" It came out more like a question than a statement.

Ella's face didn't so much as twitch. She made another note. Then she looked up, gave John a long, searching look. John stared disbelieving at the scene inside him. The ground beneath his feet had disappeared. Everything was caving in. Like his childhood nightmares, everything caved in and he fell into a black hole and waited to hit the bottom. Knowing that this was it. That it was over. That he couldn't do anything. That he'd die as soon as he landed. That he had no choice other than to accept it. Free fall.

"John?"

Ella's black eyes. She was calm. An anchor. He didn't land. He kept falling. Slower now, but he was still falling. There was no bottom. He felt dizzy.

"You have a place," Ella said smoothly, "on a meadow filled with flowers and a tree. Go there, John."

John closed his eyes. The meadow with the tree. An imaginary refuge that Ella had shown him, and where she sometimes sent him. The ground was intact there. John breathed deeply of the summer air. It was peaceful. A light breeze rippled through the grass, made the leaves of the tree rustle softly. It was warm and serene. John leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. This was his place. His. He was safe here. He'd often come here when he'd worked through his experiences in Afghanistan with Ella.

"Relax until you feel safe and whole," Ella said.

John nodded.

"I feel safe and whole," he said after a while.

"Then look around yourself at the meadow."

John opened his eyes and looked around at the imaginary meadow. Far to the north at the horizon were the mountains, tapering off to a steppe on the east. Hills, then a broad plain of dry grass and rocks. A figure walked toward him out of the expanse of the plain, sombre and calm. He wasn't afraid. It was Sherlock. He walked across the plain, straight toward the meadow where John's tree was, stepped carefully but confidently onto the grass, and stopped in front of John. They looked at each other, not saying anything. Sherlock was delicate and luminous in the world of his imagination. His eyes clear, honest, as pale as water.

John felt his heart pounding. Those pure blue eyes. So much tranquility between them. Tranquility and clarity. Everything was so natural and obvious. They embraced. No questions asked. No words. It was unspectacular. Two parts that came together to form a whole. Redemption and perfection. A deep sense of peace took root and spread out inside John. He felt the tears running down his cheeks, wiped them away with the back of his hand.

"You can come back now, John," Ella said calmly. 

John felt in his trousers for a tissue to dry his face. Ella's black eyes. The free fall had stopped. John could feel the chair he was sitting on.

"Sherlock was there," John said, still shaken. "We hugged. It was so calm. And it was really nice."

"Take that image and that feeling with you. We'll try to find out what that means for your real life next time. Is that okay with you, John?"

 

***

 

 _Damn it! No, it was not okay!_ John tried to maintain his pace but he couldn't. His heart was beating out of rhythm. The image within him wouldn't remain steady, kept being tossed from one side to the other, an imbalance that destabilised his body. His breathing wouldn't remain constant. _Fuck!_ John stopped, took a deep breath. He'd gone home following the session with Ella, changed his clothes and set off for a run. Grateful that Sherlock hadn't been in the flat. An evening circuit of Regent's Park. He'd thought it was a good idea after what had happened at Ella's.

The meadow with the tree. John left the footpath, walked across the lawn down to the oak tree on the edge of the lake. It looked a lot like his imaginary meadow here. A slight breeze, the rustling of leaves. John leaned back against the tree trunk, looked out across the water where the evening breeze created a crinkled pattern. Tranquility. The only thing missing was Sherlock. Sherlock embracing him. John closed his eyes for a moment, allowed himself the illusion that Sherlock stood behind him, wrapping his arms around him. A sense of release and peace. A new, surprisingly pleasant daydream. But just a dream. The real Sherlock had nothing to do with his fantasy Sherlock. The real Sherlock was a genius detective and a cynic. He had his Benjamin and was further away than ever.

The sound of his mobile phone tore John out of his thoughts. Unknown number.

"Watson."

"Benjamin Waters. Hi, John."

It took John a moment to compose himself.

"Benjamin? This is quite a surprise. To what do I owe the honour?"

"Can we meet?"

"Why?"

"We should talk. Just the two of us. Do you have time this evening? Or tomorrow sometime during the day? I can arrange things around you."

John took a deep breath. Sherlock. Why else would Benjamin want to talk to him?

"Is it about Sherlock?"

"Among other things. Of course."

"What else?"

"John, I'd like to meet with you because it's not something I can discuss over the phone."

"All right. When? Where?"

"Early tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'm working tomorrow."

"I can come to Bart's."

"I'll have to see if I can manage it. How long will we need?"

"I'd prefer not to set a time limit. It would be good if you could make time."

John felt his heart pounding. What had happened? Was something wrong with Sherlock? Why did Benjamin want to have an open-ended conversation in private? It sounded like there was a problem.

"What about tonight?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah, that would work. But I'm out right now. The earliest I could make it would be in about an hour."

"Nine o'clock, Great Gildford Street. There's a cafe, Rosie Tate. Can you make it?"

"Yeah, can do. I'll be there at nine."

"Thanks, John. See you soon."


	7. Abyss

Benjamin was waiting in front of Rosie Tate, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. It had started to rain and cooled off considerably. 

"John," he said, holding out his hand.

John took it. A firm, warm handshake.

"Rosie's pretty full," Benjamin said. "My place is just one house down, we could go there. If that's all right with you. It would be quieter."

The suggestion was unexpected. John gave the man in front of him a once-over. Benjamin was clearly fit and well trained. He seemed calm, waiting patiently for John's answer, his blue eyes alert.

"Going home with a strange man?" John teased.

"What are you afraid of? I only want to talk, John. But we can go into Rosie's if you'd rather not."

John glanced through the glass window of the cafe. It was really heaving.

"All right, fine. Let's go to yours."

Benjamin lived in one of the old blocks of flats directly behind the cafe. Old brick construction, old-fashioned winding staircase, beside it a narrow lift that had clearly been added in much later. Benjamin took the stairs and John followed him up to the fourth floor. 

The flat was surprisingly light and modern. A large living space with an open kitchen. The bedroom in the back, its door open, the bed unmade. Next to it the bath. Benjamin showed John to the minimalistic glass-and-metal dining table. John looked around, took in the sparse furnishings. A simple black leather couch in the middle of the room, in front of it a carpet. Side table, television. In one corner a desk with a laptop and bookshelf. Lots of empty space. Much different than in Baker Street. 

Had Sherlock sat here on the couch with Benjamin? Hugged him, caressed him, kissed him? Had he slept in the unmade bed with him, lain in his arms, given himself to him? Had he eaten breakfast here following a night of passion, right here at this table? Did it smell like Sherlock in here? John tried to banish the thoughts. They pained him. The direct confrontation with what had happened here grated on his nerves, tore at his heart, unsettled his mind. John struggled doggedly against it. Damn it! He was a grown man! Sherlock had had sex here. So what?

Benjamin had taken two glasses out of the cupboard, set them on the table, filled them with sparkling water, and sat down across from John. They regarded each other for a few seconds. Benjamin's straightforward blue eyes searched John's face.

"So. I'm here," John said. "You wanted to talk."

"Yes." Benjamin took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Yes," he said again, more softly.

"I'm listening."

"Sherlock is unhappy. I want him to be happy." Benjamin took a sip of water, too fast and too much, as if he wanted to wash away what he'd just said.

John was surprised to see that Benjamin's hand trembled slightly as he set his glass down and immediately poured himself more water. Benjamin was deflecting, seeking refuge in the action, just for a few seconds, buying himself time while he busied himself with the water. It was difficult for Benjamin to talk to him, John realised all of a sudden. Very difficult. And for a handful of heartbeats, John admired this man who had called him with the intention of saying things that were obviously so hard to get out.

"I also want Sherlock to be happy," John said matter-of-factly.

"I know. That's why I want to talk to you. We both want the same thing."

"Sherlock's been unhappy since he met you. He wasn't like this before," John said. He was shocked at his own words, shocked at the accusation in them and the gratification he felt at the fact that it was true. It was true.

Benjamin watched him closely before nodding thoughtfully. "That's true. But it's only half the truth, John," he said in an unexpectedly gentle tone.

"Then tell me what it is you want to say."

"I'm flying back to the States the day after tomorrow."

A wave of black fear broke over John, inundating him. Sherlock. Was Sherlock going with him? Please no. No. Not that. No! John tried to breathe, inhaled only with difficulty, the air seemed to be dark and thick, like sticky tar. His surroundings flickered before his eyes.

"What about Sherlock?" he asked. His throat closed off in panic, his words came out dull and scratchy.

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"There's nothing to talk about. Sherlock's an adult. He can make his own decisions. I'm not his nursemaid. What do you want from me?" A roiling black mass of anger and disappointment, defiance and desperation. John was this close to getting up and leaving. Running away. Sticking his head in the sand. Hiding under a stone. Ignoring anything else. It wasn't his problem. Not his problem.

"John. Listen to me. Please. Let me explain. Please."

John gritted his teeth. He was a complete mess. He was afraid of what was coming. But he also knew he couldn't avoid it. Facts were facts. He caught himself leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, staring at his glass. Defensive posture. Protecting himself. Benjamin was a psychologist and would see it, of course, interpret what it meant. Naturally. John didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. All that mattered was getting through the next hour.

"Fine," he said sourly.

"I planned out everything I want to say to you," Benjamin admitted, "but it's not that easy. I need to start a little further back. Bear with me, John."

John nodded without looking up. He felt like he was up on the hangman's scaffold. Ready to be cut down. Ready to die a martyr's death.

"I'm a British citizen but I've lived in New York for several years. I work there as a profiler for the FBI. For months now, we've been chasing down a drug trafficking ring that's active in Europe. That's why I was sent to London."

John looked up in surprise, met the blue eyes of the man opposite him. Not such an average psychologist after all. Something special after all. Sherlock got bored with normal people. He should have known.

"I was looking for someone suitable to work with here. Sherlock was recommended to me. That's why I came to the two of you as a client. You saw me. Sherlock passed the test with flying colours, of course. And he was willing to work with me."

"You're working together?" John was flabbergasted. "You mean you aren't a couple?"

Benjamin took a deep breath. "No, we are," he said quietly. He turned his glass slowly around on the table in front of him, not looking at John. "It wasn't part of the plan for me to fall in love with Sherlock. And I did immediately, love at first sight, utterly mad, head-over-heels. I was completely gone. I wanted Sherlock. No matter what. It was so... inevitable. I've never fallen so hard for anyone before. I was lovesick."

"You seduced him."

"No, no John. Please, don't accuse me of something like that. I wooed him, yes, I did that. I was more than a little forward about it, I admit. I put all my chickens in one basket. You saw it too. But Sherlock was the one who responded. It was surprisingly easy. Much easier than I'd expected. I know that's... hard for you, but that's how it was."

Their eyes met: John and Benjamin. They watched each other for several long seconds.

"I'm sorry, John," Benjamin whispered.

"What are you sorry for? Sherlock and I aren't like that." A miserable, petulant attempt to brush it all off. The pain, the grief. Sweep it all away. There was nothing there, no, we're just friends. Sherlock is free, can do whatever he wants. John knew it was a lie. His heart hurt. A lie that cut him to the quick. He felt it. Felt what the words did to him. Wrong! Wrong! He wanted nothing more than to scream and smash everything around him.

"John. I'm not blind. I'm a profiler." Benjamin's voice was gentle.

"Get to the point," John said harshly. He couldn't stand the pity. He'd sat up straighter, rested his arms on the table, looked Benjamin in the eye. Open confrontation, direct gaze into the blue eyes taking his measure, earnest, perceptive, uncritical.

"Sherlock talked about you all the time, you know. You were in every other sentence. He didn't even notice he was doing it." Benjamin took a deep, heavy breath. Then he said wistfully, "I knew that it could only ever be an affair between me and Sherlock. One I didn't want to pass up on, couldn't pass up on, but still. You were always there, John. And you still are, here."

"Of course I'm still here. I'm his best friend. We live together. Get on with it. What is it you want to tell me?" John was impatient.

"You aren't listening," Benjamin realised with consternation. "You aren't hearing what I'm saying. And you're not listening to Sherlock. Nor yourself. You're not observing." Benjamin spoke wonderingly, seemed taken aback. 

"What do you mean? Are you trying to insult me?" John still felt the instinct to flee. 

Benjamin's eyes flashed in anger. "Damn it all to hell, John! Listen to me once and for all! I'm ripping my guts out here for you and Sherlock. Do you think this is easy, talking to you like this? Do you think this is fun? And you're not even listening! Don't you see that Sherlock is being torn between the two of us? Don't you see that, John? Let me tell you something: you're deaf and blind! I'm trying to make it clear to you that Sherlock needs YOU. I'm trying to tell you I see that. That I'm going to face up to the consequences. I'm leaving. Do you get that? Do you finally get it? Do you think it's easy? Huh? Do you?"

Benjamin had stood up, leaned over the table toward John and spat the words right in his face, slammed his hand down on the table. But now all of the energy seemed to suddenly drain out of him. 

He said, more subdued now, "I always wished for a partner like Sherlock, you know. He's like a dream that finally came true." His voice cracked and he fell silent. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

John stared at him, nonplussed. Benjamin collapsed back down onto his chair. His blue eyes full of hurt and pain. He didn't try to hide it, met John's gaze head-on. He didn't wipe away the tears that ran down his face. John swallowed hard. He was confused. He didn't know what to say or do. And so he remained silent. Waited. At some point he reached into his trouser pocket for a tissue for Benjamin, handed it to him across the table. The other man took it at once and used it to dry off his face.

"I'm in love with Sherlock," Benjamin said, his voice thick. The admission released a fresh flood of tears.

"What do you want from me, Benjamin?" John asked after a short while, soft and muted now. He was still in a complete muddle. The other man's misery upset him. He still didn't understand what Benjamin's intentions were with this meeting.

Benjamin cleaned off his face, blew his nose, drank some water, took a couple of minutes to gather himself. John waited.

"Right," Benjamin said, straightening. "So. I'm flying back to the United States the day after tomorrow. From that moment onward, this thing with Sherlock is over for me. Finished. Done."

"Does Sherlock know?"

"He knows I'm flying back. He doesn't know it's the end of the relationship. I'll tell him tomorrow. I don't want him to go with me. To come after me. He belongs here. He belongs in London, at your side."

"Does he see it that way too?"

"He's torn. And miserable. Didn't he say anything to you?"

"No."

"He's afraid of losing you."

John clutched his glass with both hands, looked into it. "I'm afraid of losing him too," he admitted softly. It hurt to say it. John felt heavy and awkward. Incompetent.

Benjamin nodded as if it pained him, his lips pressed together into a thin line. Tears swam in his eyes. "I'll explain things to him in a way that he'll understand it's over, that I don't want to hear from him again. I don't want him to be torn anymore."

"You're going to lie to him."

"It's tearing him up inside, John. He can't decide. I'm doing it for him."

"Benjamin. Give him the chance to decide for himself. He loves you."

Benjamin shook his head slowly. "He loves YOU, John. He just doesn't understand because the physical side of things is missing."

"Which you can offer him."

"Yes. We slept together. Sherlock wanted it, insisted on it. I wanted it too, I admit. It was lovely. But I'm the wrong one." And since John didn't answer, he went on: "I had the feeling from the very beginning that it was a kind of experiment for him. He wanted to try it, wanted to have that experience, to know how it felt. But it wasn't about me."

"Yet he's still torn."

"It's love on my side. He knows that, senses it, has felt what it's like. Felt what it does to me. And what it does to him. It... makes for a pretty strong bond."

"What am I supposed to do?" John asked hoarsely. He was ensconced in a thick fog that didn't want to part, at the mercy of the heavy, painful mist.

"Sherlock's going to fall when I let him go. Catch him."

"Yes, of course I will. I would anyway."

"Physically too."

"I can't."

"Yes. You can. It's easy. Put your arms around him. That's all. He needs to be touched, to feel safe. Just like everyone else. And when the time comes: sleep with him, John. He's waiting for you."

"How do you know?"

"How?" Benjamin's eyes were brimming with emotion. "When I touch him at night, he hugs me and whispers _John_. When he dreams, he calls your name, looking for you, running with you, arguing with you, laughing with you. _John. John. John. John_."

John had closed his eyes and sat there on his chair, feeling lost. As if someone had spun the globe of his life around. A pole shift. Everything was topsy-turvy, falling and tumbling, breaking apart and coming back together anew, forming unfamiliar patterns.

Benjamin stood up, sluggish and unwieldy, his warm hand squeezing John's shoulder.

"Will you have a glass of wine with me?"

John nodded without opening his eyes, heard Benjamin go to the cupboard, the high tone of glass tapping against glass, the pop of a cork being pulled out of a bottle. Benjamin poured red wine for them both. John looked up into Benjamin's eyes, still pink, but warm and affectionate. What an exceptional man. Strong enough to love, to cry, to fight, and to emerge victorious.

The wine tasted heavy and aromatic. John stayed there a long time. They sat across from each other at the glass and metal table, drank wine and talked. Benjamin said things that John had never heard from a man before.

"I knew for sure when we met at that pub. I saw you. Your eyes. Your warmth. And I saw the effect your presence had on Sherlock. You're a rock, John, something to lean on and be safe."

They talked about things John had never discussed with a man before. Emotions. Friendship.

"Did you also talk about this stuff with Sherlock?" John asked.

"No. You know him, John. He can't do this."

They talked about Sherlock. John had never heard anyone speak so openly about Sherlock before. They also talked about the case that Benjamin and Sherlock had helped to crack open, international drug trafficking. The trip to Montpellier to help the police with clearing out one of the cells there.

"You can handle the cell in London yourselves," Benjamin said. "Sherlock will have all the information he needs the day after tomorrow at the latest."

It was long past midnight when John stood up to leave.

"Sherlock doesn't know about our conversation," Benjamin said as John got ready to leave. "I'll leave it up to you whether you want to tell him, and when."

He walked down with John to the outside door. They paused there for several long moments, regarding each other. Benjamin's hand brushed John's upper arm, then they hugged, close and tight.

"Take care of Sherlock," Benjamin whispered in John's ear.

John closed his eyes and held the other man against him. "I promise."

 

***

 

Sherlock was already asleep when John got home. John showered, went upstairs to his room, trying not to make any noise. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling with its dull red spot blinking from the reflection of the neon sign across the street.


	8. The Wall

_You have a taboo against physical contact._

Benjamin's assertions spun around in John's head. Statements made at some point during the conversation, sometime during the course of that difficult night.

_There are unspoken rules in every relationship. Topics that both people are afraid of are made taboo by mutual agreement. That makes it possible to be together without fear. That's what you did, you and Sherlock. Now you've reached that limit._

Yes, they had reached the limit. Right here. How right Benjamin was! The mutual agreement not to come too close physically was like a carefully constructed wall, meticulously maintained on both sides. The hardest part was that the wall was a common project, lovingly built by both of them to protect each other, to offer each other comfort, to make their relationship easier for them both. 

John was still staring at the ceiling of his room. The blinking neon sign had faded. Day was breaking outside. Did their friendship have a strong enough foundation to break that taboo as well? Were there grounds on which they could meet and overcome that fear together? What would happen if he, John, started dismantling the wall? Was it him? Was he the one who needed the taboo? Had Sherlock built the wall for his sake? For John? In order to offer him a friendship that he could accept without fear, that he could live with? Had Sherlock eschewed physical contact because of him?

The imaginary meadow with the tree. The deep peace he felt in the embrace of the Sherlock in his fantasy. The subconscious level of the soul; Ella had explained it to him. There was something there, John couldn't deny it. Deep within him was something that knew more than his head, more than his consciousness. A sense of security. And yet. John was afraid of what was coming. Very afraid. Sherlock was going to fall.

Sherlock was sitting at the table in the living room, wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, when John came downstairs and went into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" John asked.

"Please."

John set the cup on the table next to Sherlock, glancing over his shoulder at the laptop. Sherlock was studying the chemical composition of the drugs that had been found in the pastry chef's workspace at Gordon Ramsay. John leaned over to get a better look. Sherlock smelled like bed, sweaty and unwashed. John put a hand on his shoulder to support himself, just lightly. The first brick in the wall. Sherlock turned his head, a bewildered look brushed over John. But Sherlock didn't say or do anything. He hadn't flinched, hadn't tensed up. He simply accepted the touch, and John decided to leave his hand where it was for the moment. Felt the body heat and sharp collarbone through the thin material. 

"Hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon. An amphetamine?" John asked.

"Methamphetamine," Sherlock specified. "Crystal meth. And that's not all. It's combined with another molecule. Take a look at this."

"Looks organic, at least partially. Could be a flavouring. What do you need to make pastries? Cocoa, fruit flavourings – no, it's not an ester. Vanilla?"

John took his hand away from Sherlock's shoulder so he could use it to point at part of the chemical analysis that had been sent over by the lab at Scotland Yard. Sherlock leaned forward.

"Yes, it could be a fragment of vanilla. Isn't artificial vanilla flavouring made from benzaldehyde?"

"I think it's a derivative of it. Bezaldehyde is also used for almond ext..."

"Marzipan! It's marzipan! You're brilliant, John! Thank you! We need to go over to Gordon Ramsay again. Are you coming?"

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"We suspect that the pastry chef hid the drugs in his creations and delivered them to his clients that way. He must have got the drugs from somewhere else though, already suitably packaged, probably delivered inconspicuously along with some baking supplies. Lestrade's people went through the entire stockroom at Gordon Ramsay from top to bottom taking samples, but they didn't find anything. There was simply too much to go through. But now we know where to look, in the marzipan. I'll take a quick shower, then we can go."

"Yeah, good."

Sherlock shot off. John sat down at his laptop, drank his coffee and read the reports from the Yard: chemical analyses, autopsy reports, sequences of events. John had switched his late shift at Bart's with a colleague first thing that morning, and taken the next day off as well. After that he had a couple of days off anyway. He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone just now. It was a good thing that they could work on the case together. Perfect.

 

***

 

The raw marzipan was delivered to Gordon Ramsay in one-kilo briquettes, hand-packed and wrapped in foil. The supplier was a company specialising in organic products. Organically farmed almonds, premium quality. There were two boxes in the walk-in refrigerator. Gordon Ramsay's manager threw her hands up when Sherlock tore open both packages and started digging into each and every briquette.

"The Yard already took samples," she complained.

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. John helped him with the sticky work, unwrapping the marzipan from the foil and breaking it into tiny pieces. The pile of crumbled dough on the table grew bigger and bigger, the boxes emptier and emptier, the manager more and more despairing. Nothing. No drugs, not even anything like it.

"Is there any marzipan stored anywhere else?" Sherlock asked.

"The pastry chef usually takes a couple of blocks upstairs to refine and colour the paste before it's used," the manager said.

"Can we see?"

"Of course."

The missing pastry chef's replacement was pouring tiny figures of chocolate at the work station in preparation for that evening. The man indicated a refrigerator, and Sherlock pulled open the stainless steel door. Row after row of bowls and trays with pre-processed ingredients.

"Where's the marzipan?"

The new pastry chef washed his hands, then pulled out one of the trays stacked with biscuits from the refrigerator to reveal three bowls behind it filled with red, green, and white marzipan. He set two more unworked marzipan blocks on the work surface beside them. 

"Sherlock!"

John fished the remainder of a marzipan block which had been broken open out of a brass bucket on the floor. There was a mark clearly written on the foil, a cross made with a felt-tip pen.

"That's rubbish," the pastry chef said. "We only use fresh ingredients. That package is old and was already opened."

"Is it left over from your predecessor?"

"Yeah, I found it in the fridge and threw it away."

John carefully broke the piece apart. Inside the briquette were plastic pellets, tightly packed, all lined up next to each other. Sherlock held a plastic bag out for John, who dropped everything into it.

"We're going to see the manufacturer, John. Come on!"

 

***

 

John sat on the couch in the living room and waited. It was past midnight. Sherlock wasn't back yet. He'd gone to Benjamin's. They'd found drugs at the marzipan manufacturer and reported it to Lestrade, who had arrested two of the five employees and opened an investigation. Then they'd documented all the facts together at the Yard. Everything pointed to an international drug trafficking ring distributing the goods via the food processing chain. Sherlock had been wound up, crowing over the success. They'd returned to Baker Street late in the afternoon, then Sherlock had changed and gone out.

"I'll be at Benjamin's."

"Okay."

John waited. He'd watched some television but was too restive to really follow the show. He'd tried to read, but his mind was elsewhere. He'd drunk a whisky. Just one. Then water. He wanted to have a clear head in case Sherlock came back from Benjamin's, possibly upset. He wanted to be there for him.

John waited, his heart heavy. He was scared. Scared that Sherlock would fall. Would fall past him. Scared of doing the wrong thing, of not being able to catch him. Of not being able to be what he needed. And yet he couldn't do anything other than wait. Wait for Sherlock. Just like he'd waited all those nights in Afghanistan when the scouts had predicted an attack was coming at dawn. Prepared for what was coming. Without knowing exactly what it was. Trusting in his own strength.

John woke when the sun came up. He must have dozed off. Checked his mobile phone. Shortly after five. No text, nothing. John listened to the flat. It was quiet. Had Sherlock come home and gone to bed, and he'd missed him? John was certain that wasn't the case. He would have heard him, would have awoken at the slightest sound. He stood up anyway, went to Sherlock's room, opened the door carefully a crack, and peeked inside. The room was dim in the early morning light, the bed empty. No Sherlock.

John made himself some coffee, had a bite to eat. Then he paced up and down in the living room, looked out the window onto the street, where the morning traffic was beginning to pick up. It was still raining. A soft summer rain. John leaned against the window frame. He felt tired and beaten. Sherlock. There was a ghost of Sherlock's presence here, in their flat, in the familiar air, the smell of dust and formaldehyde, coffee, paper and their bodies. Their biotope. Warm and safe. Home. The world outside. And Sherlock, hugging him from behind, cautious and tender, as he stood at the window and looked out with a heavy heart. Warmth at his back. Comfort. A soft snuffling at his neck. Sherlock. John had pressed his forehead against the window frame and closed his eyes. It was a nice dream. It didn't shock John anymore. Still, it was only a dream. Sherlock wasn't here, he was somewhere out there, maybe with Benjamin.

John waited. Waited all day. He stayed in the flat, read a little, puttered around, put Mrs Hudson off when she asked after Sherlock.

"John, what's going on with Sherlock? He's gone so much. You're always alone. Did something happen?"

"No, it's all fine. It's just a bit of a turbulent time."

"He doesn't have someone else, does he?"

"What makes you think that? Anyway, it's none of your business, Mrs Hudson."

"There were all those letters and cards all of a sudden a couple of weeks ago. All in the same handwriting. And someone left a red rose for him. A red rose! That means something, John. You need to watch out for Sherlock. I mean it."

"I am, Mrs Hudson. Now please let me read this textbook."

"Shall I pop round to the shops for you?"

"We have everything, thanks."

"I'll make an apple pie tonight and bring you a piece."

"We have everything, Mrs Hudson."

"Still."

 

***

 

The last flight to New York left at 8:30 that evening from Heathrow. If Benjamin wasn't lying, he would be on his way to the States by now, at the latest. It was 11 pm. Sherlock still wasn't home yet. John had been waiting for two days. He'd sent four innocuous texts and not received any answer. He'd called Lestrade with the excuse of inquiring about the progress of the investigation and found out that the D.I. hadn't heard from Sherlock either. The rain had stopped, and John decided to take a short walk in the night air to clear his head. He intended to continue waiting. At some point, sometime, Sherlock would come home.

The night air was mild and still humid from the rain. John wandered aimlessly through the streets, checking in at the pubs and restaurants he and Sherlock sometimes went to. He sat on a bench in Paddington Street Gardens and stared out into the dark. Then he kept going, no direction in mind, restless. 

He went back to Baker Street two hours later, hoping Sherlock might have come home in the meantime. But he wasn't there. John took a shower, put on tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and lay down on the couch in the living room, where he'd already spent the previous night.

Sherlock returned towards dawn. It was still dark. John startled awake when he heard the tired footsteps coming up the stairs. Then the door to the flat. Sherlock turned on the light in the living room and stopped short when he saw John sitting on the couch. They looked at each other, not saying anything. John was incredibly relieved. He hadn't been able to entirely dismiss the thought that Benjamin might have lied, that Sherlock had flown with him to the States. But Sherlock was here. Disheveled, dirty, and bleary-eyed, standing in the living room and staring at John, his face a frozen mask, his expression rigid and closed off. They didn't speak. Either of them. 

Sherlock went mutely into the bathroom. Showered. Then he went into his room and closed the door firmly behind him.

John stretched out on the couch again. He hadn't expected Sherlock to fall weeping into his arms, but it still hurt to see his friend so stand-offish. So cold. So distant.

John made coffee once it was properly morning. Sherlock hadn't stirred. John thought about rousing him but decided against it in the end. He set a thermos filled with coffee, two slices of toast, and a bottle of water on the floor in front of the door, knocked once and said, "Sherlock, there's coffee outside the door."

Then he went back into the living room with his own breakfast and read the newspaper. He heard Sherlock go into the bathroom, then back into his room, heard the key turn in the lock. The next time he went past in the hall, he saw that Sherlock had taken the breakfast. He stopped in his tracks, startled at the feeling that the simple fact elicited in him. He was filled with gratitude and happiness. A first step. Sherlock had accepted his attentions. 

Sherlock emerged from his room that evening as if nothing had happened, sat down wordlessly at his laptop, read emails, studied the reports from the Yard on the current case. John fetched food from the Thai place across the street and they ate without speaking, each in front of his own computer. Sherlock was silent and withdrawn.

"You look tired," John finally ventured.

Sherlock didn't look up from the screen when he said, his words cool, "You waited for me, you're standing watch over me, taking care of me. Why? Did Benjamin make you do this?"

"Make me? No."

"But you spoke to him."

"He told me he was flying back to the U.S."

"He left yesterday."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry. It has nothing to do with you."

John looked up. "You're wrong about that," he said calmly.

Sherlock's eyes. Wavering. Unsure. Then a sudden hardening. "What am I wrong about?" Sherlock asked, irritated and combative.

It took John a moment to deal with the unexpected aggression. Then he replied, remaining calm, "It has quite a lot to do with me."

"It has absolutely nothing to do with you, John! Nothing! It's MY business. My private life belongs to me, whether you like it or not. So don't stick your nose into it!"

Sherlock's eyes flashed, his words bitter and fractious. John tried to keep breathing, to maintain his composure. His heart was racing. He needed to rein himself in in order not to get up and walk out. Or shout at Sherlock.

"I can't stand this caretaker attitude." Sherlock got up and stood in front of John, his eyes wild and shuttered. "You had a shift at Bart's but you put it off. Do you think I'm blind? The two of you planned this all behind my back, you and Benjamin. You set it all up, didn't you? That is the absolute height of disrespect! Just who exactly do you think I am? Do you really think I would grieve some meaningless fling for a single second? I don't need your help, John! Keep your caring lark to yourself! I don't need you. You or your friendship." Sherlock spat the word 'friendship' out as if it were poisoned. "I want to be alone. I'm sure of that now. I want to live alone. Anything else is unbearable. I know that NOW more than ever."

John let Sherlock's defiant attack pass right over him, looked straight into the pale blue eyes, burning with pain and rage and disappointment. A black knot of sadness weighed heavily inside him, pressing him down into the chair where he sat. He didn't move. Just waited for the next hurtful remark, knowing that eventually it would be enough. That Sherlock would eventually break his heart if he didn't stop. That the limit had been reached.

Sherlock stopped. As if he'd sensed it. Their eyes met. Sherlock was so angry his chest was heaving. His eyes faltered. Sherlock was scared. Scared of what he felt. John saw it, realised it precisely at the moment when Sherlock turned on his heel and fled, left the flat virtually in a panic, banging the door behind him. John heard him running down the stairs, heard the house door slam shut. Then it was quiet. 

John closed his eyes. He was so incredibly tired. Just so tired. His heart was burning, threatened to scorch him. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to cry. But after a couple of minutes he gave in to the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes.

 

***

 

John was still sitting at the living room table, his face in his hands, when Sherlock came back. John had no idea how much time had passed. Half an hour, perhaps, or two. He heard Sherlock coming but he stayed where he was and didn't move. He was too drained from what had happened here, from the merciless power of the emotions they were putting each other through. He and Sherlock. It would be too much at some point. Even for him.

Sherlock's hesitant steps, the scraping of a chair. Breath. Movement, a gentle puff of air. Sherlock sat down beside John at the table. Close to him. Silence. Only their breathing and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. The smell of dust and paper, of their flat, the flat they shared, of the two of them. A warm mantle of their life together. 

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "John." And after several long seconds, in a trembling, barely audible voice: "I'm sorry, John. Please forgive me."

John took a deep breath. Sherlock's voice sounded flat and broken. His words came slowly and hesitantly. "I wasn't in control of myself. I'm so sorry. Please, John. It's not true that I want to be alone. I need you, John. I wish it were different, but I need you. That scares me."

John rubbed his hands over his face. It was still wet. He swallowed, then slowly raised his head. Sherlock sat right in front of him. He was pale and disheveled, his eyes red. He was calm, though. Calm and earnest. His icy blue eyes warm and open. Like in those rare moments when they had allowed themselves to feel and show each other the affection they shared.

"I need you, John," Sherlock whispered.

"I'm here," John answered softly.


	9. Master of Death

They sat together a long time at the table in the living room: Sherlock and John. Both drained, exhausted from the emotional disturbances, the unease and the grief of the past couple of weeks and hours. They simply sat there, the corner of the table between them. Close together. Neither of them got up. Neither said anything. Just sat there silently. 

John was deeply moved by Sherlock's confession. _I need you, John._ And yet it wasn't the words that touched his heart. It was the fact that Sherlock stayed there with him. Quiet. Still. Hurt and rubbed raw, debilitated by battles that John could only guess at. Sherlock stayed with him. And he with Sherlock. Silently. They sat within a breath of each other, within the sphere of each other's warmth, close enough to feel each other, to smell each other. To feel their wordless togetherness ensconce them like a warm blanket, covering both of them. They kept to their own thoughts and emotions, didn't so much as look at each other. Just rested there together. A mutual refuge in the wake of a painful journey. Coming home. Coming home to each other. The two of them. The tick-tock of the clock on the wall. The stillness of the flat.

Sherlock's slender hand lay motionless on the table. John's hand beside it. At some point he extended his fingers, felt for Sherlock's cool skin with his fingertips, stroked it, barely a centimetre, barely even a touch, then let his fingers fall back to the table. He simply did it, following some instinct, no trepidation, no intention. He had no words he might have said. Just this simple, brief gesture that expressed everything he felt. A mute bond, somewhere down deep. A clear yes to Sherlock. No matter what had happened or might yet happen. John didn't startle, marveled only briefly when the tips of Sherlock's fingers cautiously pressed in between his. Their fingers found each other as if of their own accord, interlocked with each other, very lightly. They didn't hold on tight. It was just the tips of their fingers that overlapped, loose and gentle.

They left their hands like that. Without looking up. John was aware of the fact that they were Sherlock's fingers between his, that they had made a connection in a new and fundamental way. It made his pulse speed up, and that was okay. It felt true, and honest. It wasn't until Sherlock's fingers moved lightly against his that a wave of affection rolled through him and he looked up, met Sherlock's mournful eyes. Their fingers held on for a moment more, a wordless affirmation, before sliding apart.

"We should get some sleep, John. I think we could both use it."

John nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"Do you have anything to help me sleep?"

"Yeah. I'll get it."

John got up. He had some antihistamines in his medical kit. They should help Sherlock sleep and give him some rest. He was grateful Sherlock had come to him and accepted his help. And he was surprisingly happy about the minute contact between their fingers, which they had both intentionally permitted and allowed to last for so long.

 

***

 

Sherlock slept the entirety of the following day. He didn't get up until it was dark, and when he did he took his violin out of its case. He played almost the whole night, cutting across genres and centuries. John sat on the couch most of the time and read. It wasn't until deep in the night, when Sherlock played the _Adagio_ from Bach's Sonata in G Minor for the third time, wistful and restrained, that John finally looked up. As if Sherlock had sensed the tiny movement behind him, he lowered his instrument in the middle of the phrase and turned to John.

"Does it bother you?" he asked dully.

"No."

"The _Adagio_ is for Benjamin," Sherlock whispered.

John took in his friend's watery eyes as he stood there forlorn in the dim light of the living room, the violin in one hand and the bow in the other. Both hung down as if he had no strength left. He looked tired and worn out. John nodded slowly; his heart hurt.

"Then play for him," he said softly.

Sherlock turned back around and lifted the violin. But he lowered it again before he'd begun playing and looked at John again.

"It hurts you, John, doesn't it?" The words anxious and miserable.

"Yeah," John admitted. "Play for him anyway."

Their eyes met. Sherlock's filled with tears; he let them run down his cheeks. He choked out a sob. Then he nodded once and settled his instrument again. John set his book aside, leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He wanted to be with Sherlock, even now. Even though it hurt to see how deeply his friend mourned for his lover. He followed the soft, vibrating notes, despondent question marks that ghosted up and down the walls and windowsills, searching for something, feeling their way through the bookcases, catching in the curtains before rapidly dissipating, disheartened.

Sherlock played the _Adagio_ over and over. Not just that night, but the next night too, and the one after that. And all the nights that followed.

During the day, Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened. They were still searching for the killer. Sherlock was more involved in the case than ever. He was practically obsessed with it, maybe because the work distracted him. The drug trafficking ring had been disbanded – or at least the London cell – but the killer with the sword was still missing, with three people on their conscience. 

The motive of the first two murders was clear: Lady Deborah Kensington must have received the wrong delivery and been baffled to see what was in her tarts. The young cook had probably also taken the wrong box of pastries home with him. It was one thing for the two of them to know something. But the drug dealers would certainly have wanted to get their valuable wares back too. That left the sports major. She had been the pastry chef's assistant. Had she discovered something? Or had she helped him with the drugs? And then there was the odd circumstance that the first two victims had been virtually anaesthetised before they'd been slit open. And the pastry chef was still missing.

The FBI's central office in New York had sent them unsolicited information about the international drug trafficking network that Sherlock and Benjamin had helped root out in southern France. The information went to Lestrade, who passed it on to Sherlock. John saw Sherlock freeze in front of his laptop and looked at the screen, both hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"The FBI in New York?"

"Yes. All the information about the drug traffickers and the profiles of four guns-for-hire who took on contracts for them."

The email had been forwarded twice. John saw Benjamin Waters in the cc of the first distribution list. The profiles had probably come from him.

"Are you going to write to him?" John asked. His voice was hoarse.

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His shoulders touched John's body. John didn't move away, leaned in toward Sherlock, felt the warmth and heavy breaths of his friend. A couple of heartbeats later, Sherlock slowly raised his hand and laid it on top of John's, squeezed it, caressed it with his thumb and palm, unselfconscious. 

"I want to be with you, John," he said quietly.

John inhaled deeply and let it out again. Sherlock's hand was so warm and solid. So sure. The contact and the words, both so simple and clear. So much warmth. John lowered his head, overcome by the development, and pressed his face into Sherlock's hair for one long moment, breathed the scent of his friend in deeply, then let the air stream out slow and damp into his curls.

"This particular profile fits someone here in London unusually well," Sherlock said after a few seconds, during which they quietly held their intimate pose. He let go of John's hand. "A paediatrician in Great Ormond Street Hospital. Tomoko Sawada, from Japan."

Sherlock opened Great Ormond Street's website and searched for the doctor. The photograph showed a mature woman with a friendly smile. A senior consultant.

"What makes you think she might be the killer?"

"She instructs children in karate in her spare time at the same sports centre where our student trained."

Sherlock brought up the site on the screen. Master Tomoko Sawada, third dan in karate, fourth dan in kenjutsu – swordsmanship.

"And that's not all," Sherlock continued. "She was apparently having an affair with the student. Probably in order to be in a position to keep a close eye on her. And she's a regular at Gordon Ramsay."

"That doesn't make her a murderer."

"No, but it makes her extremely suspicious. The FBI was on her trail once already, six years ago in Virginia. She was working as a doctor in Richmond and they were able to connect her to the mafia. She emigrated to Great Britain when things got too hot for her there. She was suspected of being a killer for hire back then but they were never able to pin a murder on her."

"What are you going to do? Bring her in for questioning?"

"No, that would put her on alert. I want her to think she's safe. I've asked Lestrade to give us some time."

"Do you have a plan?"

Sherlock looked up, into John's eyes.

"You're going to visit the children's karate class pretending to be looking for something for your son or daughter. Play the role of a single father and use your charm. Invite her to tea or something along those lines. You're both doctors and you're familiar with martial arts. That should be sufficient for an initial contact. Act like you're interested in more."

"What's the purpose of that supposed to be?"

"Any information about her is valuable, no matter how trivial."

John wasn't exactly enthusiastic. "Why don't you do it?" he asked.

"You know how awkward I am around women, John. And you're the right choice based on your background anyway."

"Fine. I'll try it at least. When's the lesson?"

"Today. Five pm. The Brunel University sports centre."

John checked his watch. "I'd better get a move on then."

John went into the hall, put his shoes on, took his jacket from the hook and shrugged it on. Sherlock had stood up too and came over to John.

"Take your gun with you," he said in a low voice. "She's a dangerous assassin."

"You're sending me into the lion's den again, hm?" John replied even as he went into the living room and took his gun out of the desk drawer, checked it, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

They stood facing each other, gazes locked. John ready for action; Sherlock hesitant.

"Take care of yourself, John. And be careful with your questions. She's extremely clever."

"Don't worry," John smiled. "I have experience with extremely clever people."

 

***

 

The lesson had already begun. John took his shoes off and stood on the threshold of the dojo to show his respect to the room, as he'd learned in his own karate training. Then he quickly and quietly sat down on the narrow wooden bench along the wall just inside the door. Around thirty children marched in rank and file around the room, following orders, practising hand and leg motions, supervised and corrected by three instructors. _Ichi, ni, san, shi, go_. The black eyes of the karate master fell on John. She said something to one of the other instructors and came over to him. 

John stood up and bowed slightly, the Japanese woman reciprocated.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to watch the class. I'm looking for a dojo for my daughter."

"You should have called ahead," the woman said.

"I didn't know, sorry. Can I stay anyway?"

Dark eyes gave John a thorough once-over. Then a narrow smile appeared on the woman's face. "I'll make an exception because you paid your respects to the room as you came in," the master said. "We can talk after the lesson."

An hour and a half later, the children were physically and mentally exhausted, the dojo smelled of perspiration and sweaty clothing. There was a crowd of parents waiting outside for their children, who poured out of the dojo after the usual closing ritual. 

John went out too, waiting for Tomoko Sawada in the hallway between the changing room and the training room. She came out of the dojo a few minutes later, covered in sweat. She was petite, the black belt huge around her slender waist. She wore her hair short, in a classic pageboy style.

"If you can wait, I'll take a shower. Then we can have some tea and talk about your daughter. If that's all right with you."

Eyes as black as coal on John.

"I'd like that," he said, guardedly polite. That had been much easier than he'd expected.

 

***

 

Warm pressure on John's wrist. Larger than life.

"Dr Watson, your partner is here."

John peered in confusion at the pale blob that might have been a face. His eyes stung and he closed them again. He didn't know what was going on. Everything was warm and far away. And so quiet. All he could hear was a rhythmic, soporific beeping coming from somewhere close by. John opened his eyes again, but the lights had been dimmed. He tried to turn his head, but his stomach protested immediately. He was incredibly nauseous. He gagged.

"That's the stomach tube. I'll give you something for the nausea," a female voice said.

The sound of something being pushed. Motion. Then warmth on John's hand. A deep, marvellous warmth that spread throughout his entire body. Relief. Peace. John heard Sherlock speaking, very soft. He didn't understand anything. It didn't matter. The utter peace allowed him to drift away.

"Take out the stomach tube!" John demanded when he woke up the next time, gripped by nausea. It was only a hoarse whisper, but the orderly understood.

"I'll let the doctor know."

A few minutes later, she appeared beside John's bed. "It's not a good idea," she said. "It's still bringing up material."

"It's irritating my stomach lining. That's why I'm nauseous all the time."

The doctor hesitated. "If there are any complications, I'll have to re-insert it. Without putting you under," she said. 

"Agreed."

John closed his eyes and breathed out on command. Tubes scraped through his oesophagus, his throat, then his nose. It hurt but it was over quickly.

"Thank you. Where am I anyway?"

"St George's Hospital, intensive care."

John was only half aware of being moved to the regular ward a day later. There were lights that went by when he opened his eyes, his bed in motion. People fiddling around with it. Voices. Sherlock was allowed to stay with him longer now, sat by his bed almost all the time. He held John's hand between his. Marvellously warm.

"Is this all right for you?" he asked shyly.

John nodded. "I felt it. Your touch, when you were there. It was really nice."

"Three times a day, five minutes at a time. They wouldn't let me see you longer than that."

"Why they let you at all..."

"Domestic partner."

"They'll want to see proof, Sherlock."

"I have it."

"What?"

"I had a document drawn up. There was no other way, John."

"So that's why the nurses aren't reacting to my charm offensive. They think we're a couple."

"Aren't we?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled. "If everyone says it, I guess it must be true."

They smiled at each other. Their hands squeezed each other gently.

John had to be told what had happened, but the memories slowly returned. He had wanted to take Tomoko Sawada out, but she'd taken him out. Everything had been so simple. They'd got on well from the start. Tea. Then food, wine, a little flirting. She'd asked him back to her place, a spacious, modern flat, filled with light, lots of space, sparse, not much furniture. Very classy. She'd promised John a tea ceremony, and she kept that promise. She made the tea on the bamboo floor of the living room, meditative, calm, with perfect elegance. And as they drank the tea, quiet and absorbed in the spiritual atmosphere of the scene, Tomoko had begun to speak, very calmly:

"I've felt quite safe in England up to now. I've created a good identity for myself here. I'm a well-respected paediatrician, even outside of London. I didn't think anyone would find me. Especially not so soon. But apparently even I cannot hide from the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. You tried hard, John Watson. I like you. I've enjoyed the evening very much. A shame that we didn't meet under more auspicious circumstances."

She sipped her tea. John sat there, frozen on the cushions on the floor, the valuable tea cup of a zen master in his hands. He was all too aware that she would never let him leave after a confession like that. Shit! He'd left his jacket with his gun out in the hall, hanging on the hook.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

She turned the tea cup respectfully around in her small, muscular hands.

"I'm afraid I will be inflicting some of the pain on Sherlock Holmes that was inflicted on me. I am going to take his partner away."

"Why?" John asked, in an attempt to distract her with conversation. "Who hurt you, Tomoko?"

She smiled, still turning the cup around in her hands, lost in thought as she regarded it lovingly.

"That is none of your concern, John. You are karateka. You know what seppuku is."

"Yes."

"I offer it to you. You are a victim, not a perpetrator. You will not suffer. I will sedate you. It is an honourable and gentle death. Old tradition, coupled with modern medicine."

"What if I don't agree?"

Tomoko smiled. "The alternative is very painful. I will slit you open without any anaesthesia."

John's mind whirled. How was such a small, slight woman going to cut him open? He would defend himself, fight back. Admittedly, his chances weren't that good. She was a master swordswoman. There would be a messy fight and a lot of blood would be spilled, and she was likely to beat him. He couldn't let it get as far as a sword fight. He needed to get to his weapon, otherwise he wouldn't have a chance.

"You're thinking, John. There is no need for that. The solution is very simple."

She set the teacup down carefully on the tea tray in front of her, then raised both hands and clapped them once. It only took a few seconds before a door opened and a giant of a man entered the living room. He greeted the master with a respectful gesture and John with a bow as well. The young man was extraordinarily strong and muscular. His face was earnest and relaxed. His eyes gave away the fact that he had been born with Down Syndrome.

"This is Osamu, my son," Tomoko said. "He is the only member of my family who is left. He is my loyal samurai and will assist me. I am going to get the Sufentanil."

Tomoko stood up with the same grace with which she had prepared the tea. John wanted to jump up, but Osamu had knelt down behind him and held him back. John tried to fight back, to get out of his grip. But he was as hard and immovable as a vise. John struggled mightily when Tomoko exposed a vein and calmly injected him with Sufentanil.

"They had already hurt you before I could shoot," Sherlock said. "And the overdose of Sufentanil led to respiratory arrest. It was touch and go."

"Lucky you were there in time."

"I followed you. I was afraid. When I saw the shape of the second person through the window, I intervened. I shot both of them in the head. I'm going to have to answer for it. Tomoko was self-defense, but not Osamu."

"Mycroft's lawyers will get you off," John said. "It was a matter of split seconds and my life was on the line."

Sherlock's hands in his. They hadn't stopped reaching for each other as soon as Sherlock came into the room. Even when John was sitting at the little table or walking up and down the corridor in order to get his circulation moving. They always held hands, sometimes firmly, sometimes just lightly by the fingers. Even when Lestrade came to visit – which he had twice – and pretended he didn't see. The staff thought they were married anyway, and it was such a good feeling. So lovely and full of joy.


	10. Waiting for Sherlock

The death of Tomoko Sawada set off an international furor. Many countries were able to clear up homicides that had lingered as cold cases. The Japanese woman had travelled as a highly paid expert to medical conferences around the world, carrying out hits as she went. Unrecognised. Masterful.

The student's death was explained by documents that were found on Tomoko Sawada's computer. She had been monitoring the student, who was just getting started in the drug trade and was suspected of being a leak. Tomoko's reports to the client suggested that she had approached the young woman and begun an affair with her in order to test her. When the student told her supposed girlfriend about how she earned money on the side with crystal meth, she had more or less signed her own death warrant.

Three weeks after Tomoko Sawada's death, they found the pastry chef. Or what was left of him. Fishermen following the stench found the half-decomposed body in a shed along the Thames, outside the city. The remains were matched to the pastry chef. Lestrade decided to close the case.

John had been pelted with questions at the press conference, barely two days out of rehab. Everyone had wanted to know what it was like with the brutal murderer. What kind of woman she'd been. John tried in vain to redirect attention to the fact that Sherlock had saved his life, at the last possible second. But the media weren't interested in that. They wanted to know everything about Tomoko Sawada. The whole thing had pained and exhausted John. He wasn't fully recovered yet.

Now he was leaning against the window frame in the living room, looking down at Baker Street, lost in thought. He'd wanted to open the window but decided against it, instead watching the people below going about their daily business. All the questions at the press conference weighed on his mind. The memories of the evening with Tomoko Sawada. Memories of an evening with a highly intelligent, educated, and interesting woman and colleague. A gifted paediatrician. John had enjoyed the evening with her, had liked her. He hadn't said it, hadn't mentioned any of that at the press conference. Murderers weren't allowed to be nice.

And then there had been that one journalist from some tabloid. She'd asked him what his final thoughts had been. His last thoughts in the face of death.

The harsh grip of the hulking samurai. The desperate attempts to free himself. And then the abrupt realisation that it was over. Done with. A strange clarity. Resignation. Calm. The time had come. That was it. Long moments, playing in slow motion. The needle of the syringe, larger than life in his recollection, piercing his skin and sliding into his vein. No resistance. 

His last thought had been of Sherlock. Saying good-bye to him. Regret. Sadness. Concern for Sherlock. How would he deal with having sent John to his death? _It's not your fault, Sherlock. I forgive you. I forgive you for everything. Everything, Sherlock. I belong to you._ John had sent those final words to Sherlock with all of his mental faculties, certain that they would find their target. Somewhere in the background the brief flash of a question: would Sherlock return to Benjamin after his death? Or succumb to despair all alone. Then the profound pain of leaving Sherlock, overshadowing everything else. The last moment before the closing darkness.

"You looked death in the eye, Dr Watson. What was your last thought?"

"I was worried about my partner," John had answered at the press conference.

It had been silent in the room then, for several seconds. Perhaps alienation at the unexpectedly personal answer. Sherlock's gaze seeking his, the pale eyes surprised and understanding at the same time. And so soft. So very soft. Maybe even affectionate. A moment of profound connection. In front of all those people. Lestrade, clearing his throat in embarrassment and asking if there were any further questions.

"There are rumours of an official document. Have you and Sherlock Holmes registered as domestic partners?" the same woman asked.

The irritated no was on the tip of John's tongue. But then he said, very calmly, "I won't be answering any more personal questions. Let's concentrate on the case."

"You wanted to open the window, John. Is everything all right?"

Sherlock had come over to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, everything's fine," John said. "I'm just thinking."

"The press conference?"

"That too. How close death is. My life – which you saved. You."

John slowly separated himself from the window frame where he had been leaning, his movements laboured. He'd wanted to turn around to his friend still standing behind him, but his breath caught before he could do so. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, gently embraced him from behind, and pulled him close. John stiffened at first in shock. But then he took a deep breath and let it out, relaxed, felt Sherlock's firm body at his back and carefully let himself sink back against it. Sherlock's embrace tightened and John felt for the arms around his neck, stroked down them until he reached Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's damp breath in his hair, Sherlock's lips against his temple for a long moment, then the soft curls on his neck. Both of their hearts thudding. John closed his eyes and gave in completely to the feelings flowing through him. Happiness. Joy. And infinite gratitude for what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock's nose. Lips. Breath. Sherlock was breathing hard; John too. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, and John nestled his head against it, overwhelmed and inundated with warmth. 

Then he said what he should have for such a long time: "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's deep, shaky breath. Long seconds. A whisper: "I know."

John felt for Sherlock's hair, ran his hand through it. His body filled with heat, and love, and the desire for closeness, for more, for Sherlock. A dream. A high. John turned his head, pressed his face against Sherlock's cheek, intoxicated with what they were doing. He knew this was the right time to be honest. To himself and to Sherlock.

He said in a low voice, "I want to be with you; in everything." And after another moment in which he realised how difficult it was to put what he wanted to say into words, he added: "In a physical sense too."

Hearts pounding. Heavy breathing.

"Yes."

John still had his eyes closed. Sherlock's breath on his mouth. Sherlock's lips brushed the corner of his mouth, just lightly, but the intention was clear. Heat shot so hard and fast into John's groin that he swooned. _Good God! What was happening to him?_ Sherlock relaxed his hold and John turned, twisted around to face him, hugged him almost without realising what he was doing. Sherlock held him fast. They held each other, waiting until they'd calmed somewhat. Their eyes met as they pulled apart. Sherlock let his hand rest on John's upper arm. The blue of his eyes was darker than John had ever seen before. They held each other's gaze for a long time, not saying anything. 

Then Sherlock spoke, his tone sombre: "Let's go slow."

John nodded, waiting.

"I don't want to jump into... I need time to..." Sherlock stumbled. "I..." The words didn't seem to want to pass his lips. He bit down on them, lowered his eyes. He let go of John's arm.

"You need some distance from Benjamin," John helped him out.

Sherlock nodded, not looking at John. They stood there for several seconds. John felt the pain in his heart. Dull and throbbing. Overlaid with deep affection for this extraordinary man who stood before him, ashamed. Sherlock raised his head, his eyes seeking John's. His blue eyes were moist, filled with pain.

"I want to be entirely free for you, John."

John put his arms around Sherlock, this time gentle and caring. He pulled him close, and Sherlock relaxed into him, cuddling up to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Don't worry about it. We'll take as much time as we need," John said tenderly.

 

***

 

"I like us being an official couple. It's... calming, somehow."

"I think so too."

John and Sherlock were sitting in a bar, at a little table tucked away in the corner, their shoulders pressed together. They'd snuck away from Greg's birthday party and had already had quite a bit to drink. Not until after the party, however. Sherlock didn't drink around other people.

John giggled. "We're a fucking fake couple, Sherlock."

"But everyone believes it. Everyone thinks we got secretly married. Even Mrs Hudson. She was rather disappointed."

"Disappointed? Why?"

"She said to me, 'Sherlock, is it true that you and John are officially domestic partners?' _Who said that?_ I asked, and she said, 'Greg said there was a certificate at the hospital...' _Oh, the hospital. Well, you see, that was..._ 'You got married in secret, didn't you? Why didn't you say something?' _Mrs Hudson, don't listen to Greg._ 'But Sherlock...' _Good-bye, Mrs Hudson_."

Sherlock had been imitating Mrs Hudson. They both laughed.

"We're still a goddamn fake couple, Sherlock," John said. "We should tell Mrs Hudson the certificate was forged."

"Or change it."

"Change what?"

"The certificate."

"What do you want to change about it?"

"We make it what everyone thinks it is."

John looked at Sherlock in astonishment. Then he laughed. "Is that a proposal?"

"Everyone's used to the idea already. Including us."

John laughed even louder. "We're still missing a little something to be a real couple," he teased.

"You mean sex? We can change that too."

Amused, John looked into his friend's pale blue eyes, mischief and earnest in equal measure. The alchohol was playing its part; John wasn't sure just how serious the conversation was.

"Ah-ha. And when?" he asked cheekily.

"As soon as we're home."

John laughed, put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close, kissed him loudly on the side of his head and scrubbed his hand through the tousled hair.

"We're three sheets to the wind, Sherlock. Both of us."

"So?"

John shook his head in amusement. "I don't think we'll be starting anything new tonight. Let's go home and go to bed. I don't think I can even stand anymore."

Sherlock looked at John. His eyes were glassy as he said, "All right."

Sherlock promptly stood up. He wobbled a bit, steadying himself on the table for a moment. Then he left the pub with halting steps. John waved the server over and paid. He couldn't quite see straight and was afraid he'd been inadvertently overgenerous, as the woman thanked him profusely.

Sherlock was waiting outside, leaning back against the wall of the building.

"We need a taxi," he said.

"There's a hotel one street over. We can get one there. Come on."

John hooked his arm into Sherlock's. They kept each other steady until they reached the hotel, where half a dozen taxis were waiting. They got into the first one and directed it to Baker Street. Sherlock held John's hand as they sat together on the back seat. A familiar gesture by now, one that no longer scared him.

"Will you sleep with me?" Sherlock asked.

The driver's gaze caught them in the rear view mirror. Sherlock was speaking rather loud and enunciating more than necessary, didn't quite have his voice under control.

"As soon as you're ready," John answered. "But not tonight, all right? I'm too drunk."

"I'm ready."

"No. You're plastered, Sherlock."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Completely. Let's be reasonable."

"I don't want to be reasonable."

John smiled. Sherlock and alcohol was a story unto itself. It didn't happen often. Not often at all. Sherlock had drunk more that evening than John had ever seen him drink before. It had been Sherlock who'd wanted to leave Greg's party, who had talked John into going to the bar, had planned to drink so much. As if he'd intended to get drunk. Was it because he wanted to take the next step? Could he only communicate that when he'd lowered his inhibitions with alcohol? When they were both in a state that no longer allowed them to think clearly? Could he take what Sherlock had said seriously?

John felt a little dizzy. He was also under the influence and couldn't really see things clearly. He just knew that he would never sleep with Sherlock in this condition. He wouldn't with anyone. He'd always stuck to that: no mixing sex with an excess of alcohol.

Sherlock had let his head sink down onto John's shoulder. He really was pretty far gone. He couldn't handle as much as John.

"Will you at least kiss me?" Sherlock asked dully.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's recalcitrance, then reached into Sherlock's curly hair, got a good grip, and kissed his friend. The taste of whisky and alcohol. He was surprised how little he cared. Sherlock's lips were open and willing. A soft wetness around John's lips, sucking them in. A fiery blaze that hit John like a wall. Sherlock moaned, bit into John's upper lip, rough and barely in control. There was so much urgency, so much passion and fire between them that John broke off in shock. He pulled back, pushed Sherlock away.

"More when we're sober, okay?" he whispered.

Sherlock grumbled, dissatisfied, but gave in.

John helped Sherlock up the stairs once they got to Baker Street. He took his jacket off for him and went with him into the bedroom. Sherlock undressed, dropped his clothes carelessly onto the floor and threw himself across the bed. He reached for John when he tried to cover him.

"Sleep here with me," he slurred.

John slipped out of his clothes and lay down beside his friend. He didn't really care where he was. He just wanted to sleep.

 

***

 

When John awoke, it was light out. Sherlock was sound asleep next to him, curled up with his back turned. He was snoring lightly. John watched him for a long moment, hesitantly touched the black curls, petted them. He'd never been so intimate with a man before. So intimate and familiar. It was nice to have someone so unequivocally, so real and close to him. Sherlock made him happy, happier than he'd ever thought possible.

John tore himself away when he saw the time on the clock, got up in a rush and took a shower. He'd promised a colleague to take her shift at Bart's that day. He'd been back at work for two weeks, was fully recovered and fit for service. He needed to hurry if he wanted to be at the hospital on time. He had just enough time for a mouthful of coffee and an aspirin for the unpleasant pressure in his head.


	11. A Step and Its Consequences

John smiled. Smiled into his friend's blue eyes, dark from his dilated pupils. The smile he saw there touched his heart and made warmth stream through his body. It was so easy. Much easier than John had imagined it would be.

When John had come home that evening from the hospital, he'd found Sherlock sitting behind his microscope at the kitchen table, a range of chemicals beside him, along with his laptop and several plates scattered with crumbs and remnants of sweets.

"Interesting case?" John had asked as he'd taken off his jacket and shoes.

"Interesting, yes. Case, no. I'm analysing the goods from several pastry shops in the city for traces of marzipan and methamphetamines."

"I thought the case was closed."

"Officially, it is. But I saw Lestrade today. He suspects that other suppliers are hiding crystal meth in marzipan and delivering it to pastry shops, where it's processed and sold to the end users. At least the statements from the people at the marzipan manufacturer indicate as much."

"So you're analysing cakes? That's a little like searching for a needle in a haystack, isn't it?"

"I'm going about it systematically, John. Lestrade can't spare anyone to follow up on it, he doesn't have any concrete evidence."

"If you're not lucky, you'll be at it for weeks or even months."

"I know. Better than getting bored. And I've found some things already. Things that certainly don't belong where they are. Admittedly, they'll be of less interest to the Specialised Crime Division than their colleagues at the Environmental Health Office."

"What have you found?"

"You don't want to know, John. It's the pastry shop just down the street. We're never buying anything from them again. Ever!"

"What's so bad?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Sure."

"Traces of urine on the muffin and particles of human skin in the vanilla crème."

"Okay. Yep, you're right: I don't want to know."

"I'll make a list of clean pastry shops. I don't think that will hurt."

"No, it really can't hurt. Feel like Thai tonight?"

After a cursory inspection of the refrigerator and an agreeable reply from Sherlock, John had gone out again to get their dinner from the Thai takeaway around the corner. A tried-and-true address they'd often frequented. While he waited, John forbade himself from thinking about how the food was being prepared in the steamy, greasy kitchen behind the counter. At least the stuff was fresh and hot, and he was hungry.

The evening had seldom been so smooth and peaceful. They'd eaten together in the living room, Sherlock had chattered about his analyses, including the fact that he was learning how to identify various ingredients, which might come in handy some day. John agreed with a grin. Sherlock was sometimes like a kid, playful and easy to enthuse when he got some idea in his head and it started to interest him, merely as a mental exercise with no other purpose than the advancement of his knowledge. John loved it when Sherlock was in a mood like this, both relaxed and excited, busy and engaged without any pressure from outside.

Sherlock had taken a shower early before coming back into the living room in pyjama trousers and a t-shirt, rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

"Sleep with me tonight?" he'd asked. Nonchalant, as if he were asking for a cup of tea.

John had looked up from his laptop and met those pale eyes, seen the glow in them. Maybe it was the light of the floor lamp by the couch, the sole light source, casting the room in a warm gold. Maybe it was the smell of the end of the day, of the aromatic dampness floating into the living room from the bathroom. The easy peace of a quiet evening after a day on which nothing much had happened. 

John nodded. "Yes," he'd replied simply.

A loving smile between them. They both understood what was being said. John felt warm and relaxed, suffused with joy. There was no fear, no shame. Sherlock's eyes open wide and affectionate. They were in agreement. No doubts. It was time. And it was right.

John had showered, slowly and thoroughly, had watched himself in the mirror as he cleaned his teeth. He'd never had sex with a man before but he felt confident. He didn't know what to expect, but he was open for anything. He trusted Sherlock. And he trusted himself. It felt completely natural.

John got into bed with Sherlock, no rush. They had time, watched each other without speaking. Sherlock lay stretched out on his side, turned toward John. It was so easy. Sherlock's hand on his face, in his hair, tender and inquisitive. Their eyes full of dreams. Very close. Breath on his mouth. The brief, shared smile, affirmation, before their lips touched. Heavy sighs, Sherlock's lips plucking at John's upper lip, latching on gently. Sherlock kissed him slowly. So slowly and intimately that John almost lost control of himself. His body burned from the first moment, demanded to be touched. He ran his hand through the dark curls as he deepened the kiss, over the t-shirt, the lean back, down to the small of his back, pulling Sherlock closer. 

And then it happened, just as he had suspected it would: they scooted in close together and the contact between their bodies set off such a blazing conflagration that they could do nothing more than hold each other tight for several long moments, panting together. Sherlock's hard cock pressed against John's through their pyjamas, and John knew that no matter what they ended up doing, it wasn't going to last long. For either of them. The fire lashed mercilessly at them both with the slightest touch. It was too strong. Much too strong. And it was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful.

They pulled carefully apart. Sherlock's eyes glazed with silver, their kisses deep and interspersed with sighs, their hands roaming. Sherlock's moan when their genitals rubbed against each other, yearning, longing. John gave in to the rush, let himself be intoxicated and overwhelmed, let himself be touched and aroused by the trembling caution of Sherlock's fingers, the soft, demanding, exploratory kisses, the urgent friction of their bodies.

John paused when his desire threatened to spiral out of control. They looked at each other, their fingers intertwined, into each other's faces, their hair, playful, fondling. The smile was still there, deep joy and connectedness. Knowing each other, knowing what was happening to them at that moment. It was so pure and calm. It was so easy. No words were necessary. Not a single one. 

Not waiting any longer, Sherlock pulled off his t-shirt, slipped out of his pyjama bottoms. John struggled to breathe for a moment. Sherlock was beautiful. The sight of his nude, aroused body burned like a shooting pain directly into his heart. Did he love Sherlock so much? So completely? With such inescapable desire? John's eyes found Sherlock's and plunged into them. He undressed as well. Shaking, now he was shaking.

They were very careful and loving. John took hold of Sherlock's hair, found Sherlock's lips, and they kissed, tipsy and passionate, hugged with racing hearts, breathless, hot skin nestling against hot skin, both moaning, pushing themselves together, wrapped around each other, rolled toward each other seeking to maximise the contact between their bodies. John lay on top of Sherlock, looked down into the silvery eyes, kissed the lips presented to him, rubbed and ground his pelvis against Sherlock's.

John started moving when Sherlock stretched out to his full length beneath him, stroked his fingers and lips over the damp skin, lost in a fever. He passed over Sherlock's navel, nuzzled the dark pubic hair, the soft inside of his thigh, the stiff penis. 

Sherlock dug his fingers into the pillow, lifted himself up, groaning, arched into his mouth. John licked the bitter moisture, knew he needed to stop, but at the same time felt how the taste in his mouth – the knowledge that Sherlock was moments away from climaxing – set off a wildfire in him that threatened to sweep him away with it. He paused, slid back up his friend's nude form, slow and lost in a haze that had him acting with the assurance of a sleepwalker. 

He stretched out on top of Sherlock, found the soft, open lips and kissed them, filled with desire, gazed into the silver-glazed eyes, Sherlock's face red with arousal. John rutted their cocks together with the movement of his hips, salacious and with a single goal in mind. He felt Sherlock moving against him, the surge building fast and strong between them, breaking at its crest, heard Sherlock's soft cry as the wave spilled over, felt the jerking and the warm wetness on their abdomens, pressed so close together, and lost control himself. Lost himself completely. Gave in, gave up, let go, flowed into Sherlock, dug into the black locks, pushed into the wet lap, felt his desire explode and heard the hoarse moan that erupted out of him. 

He held fast to Sherlock, who pushed up to meet him. Hot skin beneath his hands. Sherlock's trembling ecstasy. He gasped for air. Their wetness intermingled. Their pulses beat over each other. Time stood still. All that existed was the tide between them. Ebb and flow. Sherlock's hair in his hands. Sherlocks hands feeling for his. Lips drunkenly seeking his. Eyes. Shimmering silver. Open. Wide open. A shudder ran through John's body.

It was so peaceful. Not a single word. Nothing other than this tenderness that John couldn't get enough of, couldn't give enough of. Soft curls, playful fingers, warm lips, skin. A smile, innocent and full of joy. Like children. It was so obvious, so easy. So obvious. And so easy.

 

***

 

It wasn't the conclusion of anything. It was the start of something. Of something that John had never experienced before. And of something that Sherlock admitted he'd never even imagined. The initial stage was like a kind of addiction. An unquenchable addiction to the high, to desire. To losing themselves together. To giving themselves to each other. To release. It bordered on obsession. And it threw John much more than he ever would have expected. 

There was a hidden side to Sherlock, one which both fascinated and moved John, and which he'd fallen in love so hard with it was physically painful. Sherlock was capable of an uncompromising devotion that bordered on a death wish in its unconditionality. There were moments in which John felt as if he held Sherlock's bare soul in his hands. Moments of sublime ecstasy. And of a little fear that he wouldn't be careful enough. But it was good. It was always good. It was surprisingly easy to find each other and to be enough for each other, even in the grips of the delirium.

There was something else, too, something that threatened to overwhelm John as a consequence. Sherlock was – at least in the first few days – virtually insatiable. Unappeasable in his hunger for love, for affirmation, for intimacy. So greedy that he became impatient. And it worked on John every time, no matter where they were. John was unable to protect himself from Sherlock's impetuousness, didn't even want to. Their mutual availability jolted their day-to-day life like an earthquake that wouldn't stop. It made Sherlock unable to work. Unable to think. 

After a first attempt at working a single day at the hospital, John took several days off. Sherlock wouldn't stop texting him that day at work. John couldn't concentrate. Every single text set him off. He couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. The heavy warmth in his belly, the constant tingling and tightness in his groin, both tortured him. John couldn't work like that. He went home during the lunch break. Sherlock was already waiting for him. They didn't need to say anything. They simply reached for each other and made love.

"Honeydays" was Sherlock's name for the four days John took off from A&E. They spent them taking walks in the park, eating, sleeping, and taking rapturous outings to this new world that had opened up to them.

"How am I supposed to work?" Sherlock asked on the final evening, as they sat at the table in the living room.

John had wanted to check his blog, but Sherlock's fingers had wrapped around his, preventing John from concentrating on anything other than Sherlock.

"I'll be at Bart's tomorrow," John said. "You should pick up where you left off with your analyses."

"I can't concentrate as long as you're available."

"I won't be available."

"Yes, you will. I know you will."

John smirked. "I'm going to try to work, Sherlock. We have to go back sometime. I'll be home in the evenings."

John gently pulled his fingers away from Sherlock and opened his blog. Sherlock sighed and scrolled through his inbox.

"They're all such trivial cases, nothing that interests me. Nothing interests me at all," he said in resignation. "I didn't know it was going to be this bad."

"What's bad?"

"You. Me. Us. Us as a couple. It's just... taking over everything."

"Wasn't it with Benjamin?"

John asked the question as if an afterthought as he pretended to read his blog. It was something he'd thought about a lot since they'd started sleeping together. It was the first time he'd ever experienced such an intense, extreme connection. But it was also the first time he'd slept with a man. Had Sherlock been this demanding with Benjamin? So demanding and so devoted at the same time? Had he given himself to him so completely too? Or was it only his Sherlock – John's Sherlock – who gave himself away in such an alarmingly exorbitant manner?

Sherlock's eyes studied him. John could feel it. Sherlock didn't answer, just looked at him. John raised his head. There was something in Sherlock's expression that John couldn't parse. Soberness, and behind that a combination of sadness and irritation. Sherlock watched him a long time, studying him. 

Then he said, "No." And a moment later, added, "It was normal."

Normal. Sherlock's eyes still holding fast to John's. Penetrating deeply.

"And this thing between us," John asked haltingly, "is it not normal?"

Sherlock shook his head as if considering. "No," he said softly. "Or is it normal for you? This existential need for each other?"

John took a deep breath. They were still holding each other's gaze. The conversation had turned serious. Serious and quiet.

"No."

"Maybe," Sherlock said, reflecting, "maybe it is normal, but neither of us has experienced it before."

"Yeah. Maybe."

They looked away from each other. John stared at the screen of his laptop. What was normal? All the meaningless sex he'd had with women? If he hadn't met Sherlock, if they'd never crossed this line, it would have continued like that. He never would have found out what it meant to form a connection like this with someone he loved on so many levels. Truly loved.

"I can understand why you ask," Sherlock said carefully. "About Benjamin."

John looked up in surprise, but Sherlock kept his eyes fixed firmly on the screen in front of him, not actually doing anything, not touching either the keyboard or the mouse.

"I'd want to know too, if I were in your place," Sherlock went on, his voice low. "And I'd be jealous." After a long pause in which he seemed to be thinking about something, he added, "I don't want to think about Benjamin any more, John. But I do want to tell you that it was different. Not like with us. Not so..." Sherlock struggled to find the right word. Then he said, hesitantly, "… fundamental."

It was quiet for a long time in the living room. Then John said, his voice barely audible: "Thank you, Sherlock."

 

***

 

John sat at the computer in the doctors' staff room, writing up a report on a patient that had been brought in to A&E, when one of the other doctors poked her head in and said, "John, there's someone here for you."

"I'll be right there. Who is it?"

"A tall, incredibly good-looking man."

"I'm coming."

John should have known. But he simply hadn't thought Sherlock would come in during his shift. Sherlock always texted or called when he wanted something. This time, however, he was waiting out in the corridor, wearing his coat despite the warm weather. He greeted John cheerfully, gave him a warm hug and kissed the side of his head. John closed his eyes to avoid meeting the eye of his coworker, who was watching the scene with interest.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asked, not feeling very enthusiastic about the unannounced visit.

"I found traces of meth, John. On a lemon tart."

"That's not why you're here, is it?"

"No." Sherlock smiled. He stood right in front of John, so close that John reached up and put a hand on Sherlock's chest, holding him back gently.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

John asked the question in a low voice. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were so fond that John suspected what the answer was going to be.

"I wanted to see you." His voice deep and satiny smooth.

"I've been gone five hours."

"Too long."

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. They were standing very close, he could feel the tension between them, the vibration, Sherlock's rapid, strong pulse beneath his hand.

"Is there somewhere private we can go?" Sherlock whispered. His face almost touched John's.

"Sherlock..."

"Please, John."

Sherlock's voice right next to his ear. He had to do something. They couldn't stay here. They were standing smack in the middle of the corridor in the emergency ward. Colleagues, coworkers, and medical staff walked past them, chatting and grinning. It was fairly calm today, no serious cases, no one was in a hurry. Everyone was looking at them. John took Sherlock's arm.

"Come with me."


	12. Will-o'-the-wisp

John led Sherlock into one of the treatment rooms. No sooner had he pulled the door shut behind them than Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, brash and desperate. John felt his way in underneath the coat so he could return the embrace. Immediately, a band of energy flowed between them, a strong, hot, counterbalancing stream.

 _John_. More sighed than spoken. 

John closed his eyes and inhaled the restless heat of his partner. Sherlock smelled damp, like his body's own scent, like motion and tumult beneath the overwarm coat. 

_John_. 

Their bodies nestled close together. Strong, rapid heartbeats. Familiar breath. They simply held on to each other. It was like being set free. Everything was fine. Both at home. The tension slowly dissipated. Their breaths became heavier and deeper. Along with their mutual relief came a desire to be even closer. Heat began to gather in their loins.

"I'll be home in five hours at the latest," John whispered into the headily fragrant skin, hairs tickling his nose.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Their bodies created friction between them. A gentle motion at John's temple, perhaps a short nod. Beseeching lips at John's ear, on his neck.

"Sherlock."

John gently pulled away from his friend. Sherlock's nose brushed his affectionately. Warm, pale eyes. They watched each other without speaking. Both of them knew: if they let this happen, it was going to be fast. It would be like striking a match and holding it to dry kindling. Sherlock's proximity, both of their willingness, the long eye contact, the lust growing between them with every passing second. 

John fought it. Not here. This was where he worked. Not here. They could not strike that match. Not here. John's erection squeezed inside his trousers. Sherlock's fingers stroked his lips, over his face, down his neck. They were shaking slightly. John saw his laboured breaths, felt his energy. It transferred over to him unfiltered. Sherlock's lips were parted. Silver mist in the ice-blue eyes. It was too late. Too late. John reached out his hand, pushed Sherlock away a bit, used the other hand to activate the switch by the door that turned the red light on outside, a signal that the room was in use. There was no way to lock the door. But the signal was clear.

The signal between them was clear as well. They didn't touch now. Just watched each other, the tension unbearable. The match was burning. Sherlock held it to the kindling. John let himself be crowded back against the white medicine cabinet, returned the hungry, possessive kiss, spread his legs for the unerring hand reaching between them, grabbed a handful of the dark curls and tried to suppress a moan. Less than a minute later, he was holding onto those same dark curls on the head between his legs, the mouth warm and wet, the tongue teasing him relentlessly, not giving him a chance. When he came deep in Sherlock's throat, completely out of his mind, Sherlock promptly swallowed while relieving himself at the same time with his own free hand.

After several dizzying seconds, Sherlock looked up. Their eyes met, breathless and a little disbelieving, but satisfied. Sherlock still on his knees. John ran a hand through the tousled hair.

"Wait," he whispered gruffly.

He reached for the paper towels on the shelf next to the medicine cabinet, got down on his knees next to Sherlock and together they silently cleaned up what they had done.

"Not particularly romantic," John said as he stood up, wadded up the towels and tossed them into the rubbish bin, did up his trousers and straightened his clothes.

Sherlock smiled. "Romantic, no," he said, "but incredibly exciting." Sherlock's kiss was passionate and enthusiastic.

"Sherlock." John held his friend and looked him in the eye, serious now. "I don't want this kind of thing to become a habit between us. This was a one-time thing, all right? I work here."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long time. What might have been a brief disappointment in his expression. Then he seemed to come round again. Finally, he said, as if he'd given it some thought, "I enjoy every moment I spend with you, John. And I want to live each and every one of those moments to the fullest."

John looked into his friend's unusually sombre eyes as he stood there calmly before him, the collar of his coat once again turned up, ready to go. Sherlock was an extraordinary man. And he was his partner. The thought filled John with pride and love. But there were still things that remained unsettled between them. How much space did Sherlock need? How much space was he, John, willing to give him?

"Let's see where we can create space for those moments," John said softly.

Sherlock's eyes held a smile as he said, "I'll see you in five hours at Baker Street."

Cool fingers caressed John's hand before Sherlock left the room, unhurried.

John stayed behind, lost in thought. He went to the sink, washed his hands and face, looked at himself in the mirror. Dr John H. Watson. Bound to the most fascinating man he'd ever imagined, right down to the marrow in his bones. It was an adventure, both mentally and physically, that was sure to have consequences. John was contented, fulfilled. His genitals felt well used and sated. Maybe he just needed to change his attitude and enjoy life more unabashedly and bolder than before. Without taking heed to other things, workplace or no. Romantic ideals. Mental blocks. John carefully disinfected his hands and lower arms and released the treatment room. He needed to get back to work.

 

***

 

When John returned home that evening, the flat was empty. The chemistry equipment was still set up in the kitchen, along with the pastry samples. The laptop had been turned off. No Sherlock. Vague disappointment. But satisfaction too. Sherlock wasn't waiting impatiently for him; he was off doing something on his own again. Maybe there was a new case. Or he'd gone to see Lestrade about the traces of crystal meth he'd found. That's what it had been like before. Sherlock had often gone out. Without letting John know. 

John went to take a shower, washed the daily grind from his body. Then he ate something and sat down with his blog.

Three hours later there was still no sign of Sherlock. John sent a text:

_Sherlock where are you? J_

No response. An hour after that, John called Sherlock's mobile phone. No one answered. John left a message in the voice mailbox. Sherlock couldn't be at the Yard, it was long after office hours. Unless something had happened. John rang Lestrade.

"Greg, are you still at the office?"

"At this hour? I'm at home."

"Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"No idea. I haven't seen him for days. Why? Has something happened?"

"He found traces of crystal meth on a lemon tart. He's been buying up confections from all the bakeries around and systematically analysing them. I thought you knew about it."

"I don't know anything about that. I hope he's not gone off on his own. Those people are pros and utterly ruthless. I hope the two of you realise that after what happened."

"I don't know where he is, Greg. He was supposed to be here four hours ago."

"Did he say which bakery he had the tarts from that he found something in?"

"No. And I didn't ask him either. Shit."

"He must have written it down somewhere. If he's going about it systematically..."

"On his laptop."

John went to Sherlock's computer and turned it on. It was password protected. John entered the password he knew. No luck. Sherlock must have changed it. Fuck. Why? Why had he changed it? Now of all times.

"He's changed his password," John said to Greg. "I'll see if he wrote anything down somewhere else. I'll call you back."

John rummaged around through the samples. The plates were all labeled with an alphanumeric code. That didn't help. The list must be on the laptop. John had two more attempts at the password. Then the profile would be blocked and he'd need to answer security questions to get in. True, he might be able to answer them; he knew Sherlock pretty well. 

Were there any clues as to what the new password might be? When had Sherlock changed it? He'd given John the old one when they'd been working on another case. He'd only used it once and that had been months ago. What had happened in the meantime for him to change it? Was there anything he might have wanted to hide from him, from John? 

Benjamin? 

The thought was like a bucket of ice-cold water pouring over him. Benjamin. Was that the password? No. Sherlock would never use a first name as a password. His last name? Waters. Six letters, that was too short and simple. And John was sure that Sherlock would never, ever use the name of someone he was close to as a password. That was practically criminally negligent. There were other things. _Crystal_Meth_. Sherlock liked to use the underscore as a symbol. No luck. _Methamphetamine_.

_Your profile has been blocked as a security precaution. Please answer the following security question:_

_"What was the name of your first pet?"_

John entered _Redbeard_. The login asked for the password again. Right. Good. Three more attempts. Pointless. He didn't have a chance. It was impossible to figure out what Sherlock would have used as a password. It could be anything at all. A random, meaningless series of letters, numbers, and symbols. Like the old password. No chance at all. Zero. It couldn't possibly be _Benjamin_. John entered the name, as a joke, completely certain that it was useless. He'd do better to text Sherlock again... John froze. No. Not that. Please no.

 _Benjamin_. All of the old, painful memories rose to the fore again, all at once. John sat there like a poodle that had been left out in the rain. _I need some time. I want to be completely free for you, John. I don't want to think about Benjamin anymore._ Lies. All lies. Sherlock thought of Benjamin every day. Whenever he logged into his computer. Was he still in contact with him?

John's hands were shaking as he opened Sherlock's inbox. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He did it anyway. A bitter pain. Disappointment filling his chest with concrete, making it impossible to breathe or even think. And fear. Fear and anger.

There were emails from Benjamin. Countless. Sherlock's inbox was full of them. But there were all old, leftovers from the time when Benjamin was wooing him. There weren't any recent ones. If they were in contact, it wasn't by email. But Sherlock hadn't deleted the messages. Did he still look back at them? Were they memories? John opened the search function and searched for all of the files on the computer with Benjamin in the name. He was hell-bent on digging everything up. Everything. No matter how much it hurt. And it did hurt. 

Photographs. Taken with a mobile phone. Benjamin and Sherlock in Montpellier. There were only five pictures. No nudes. Two of them were selfies. Two male faces, bursting with happiness, heads together, Benjamin making faces on one. A portrait of Benjamin, taken somewhere in the city. He was turning around, looking back. A smitten smile, eyes glowing. Two pictures of Benjamin, both taken in a park, apparently without him knowing. Benjamin sitting on a bench in the sun, slim figure leaning back, legs crossed, one arm resting casually on the back of the bench, relaxed. The close-up showed his face, half in profile. He was pensive and worried.

John stared at the photograph. Benjamin's distressed expression. Sadness. He must have already known then, must have felt that Sherlock would slip away from him. The conversation with Benjamin. Why had he wanted to talk to John like that if he hadn't meant it? Why would he have pretended like that? Benjamin had sent him directly into Sherlock's arms. John tried to make sense of it as he looked at the man in the picture, the short blond hair, the eyelashes gleaming in the sunlight, the gaze in the blue eyes directed inward. His posture relaxed, his heart disjointed.

He'd liked Benjamin by the end of their conversation. He'd believed him, trusted him. And he still believed him, now, as he looked at the photograph. Benjamin made a trustworthy, sober impression. Even now, in the picture. Was Sherlock the one who was lying? What was he hiding from John? John knew he would only find those files that contained Benjamin in the name. Everything else that Sherlock had labeled differently would remain hidden.

John rubbed both hands over his face. It was completely backwards to trust a stranger and not his own partner. Wasn't it? What a horrible question. And what horrible doubts. John tried to dismiss them. The point now was to find Sherlock. It was unusual for him not to react to the texts and the call. He'd talk to him later. About the password. About Benjamin. This wasn't the right time for second thoughts. Sherlock might be in danger. 

John closed the pictures and the mailbox, went looking for the results of Sherlock's chemical analyses. The data was easy to find. A bakery on Pratt Street. Sherlock had bought lemon tarts and vanilla custard puff pastries there. It was the last entry on the list. That must be it. 

John called Lestrade.

"What do you want to do?" Greg asked.

"I'm going over there."

"It's eleven at night. What do you expect to find?"

"Sherlock."

"Should I come with you?"

"No. You know where I am. I'll let you know if I need you."

"All right. I'll stay close to the phone."

"Thanks, Greg."

"No problem."

 

***

 

The bakery was in a row of attached shops. On one side was the neighbouring building, and on the other was a driveway that was separated from the street by a steel gate. John climbed over it. A motion sensor made a glaring spotlight flare up as John dropped to the ground on the other side. He bent low and pressed up against the brick wall of the building. Waited. The other side of the driveway was lined with bushes, a narrow strip of green separating it from the next property. John waited until the light went off, then ran doubled over to the other side and jumped into the bushes as the spotlight once again flooded the driveway with light.

John moved quickly, keeping close to the chain-link fence that ran down the middle of the strip of grass marking the boundary of the property. He went all the way to the back, where the driveway ended in a wall. Two lorries parked there offered some protection. A staircase along the outside wall led down to the basement level. The ventilation system indicated that the production facility was down there. 

John scurried down the stairs. The door was locked. Of course. What else had he expected? It was a straightfoward lock, easy to pick with a pocket knife. Should he do it? Was Sherlock in there? He might be somewhere in the city, in a completely different location, busy with something that had nothing to do with the case at all. It was just a hunch that Sherlock was here. He had no evidence whatsoever. It would be better to try to reach him again before breaking in. 

John sent a text: _Sherlock please answer. J_

 _Ding_. John froze. Had he heard right? The text alert of Sherlock's phone? He listened to the night. Nothing. He wrote: _Sherlock_ , and sent the text. _Ding_. The alert was coming from somewhere up above. 

John went back up the stairs and hid behind the lorries. There weren't any motions sensors here at the back of the driveway so it stayed dark. 

Another text, this time empty. _Ding_. It was coming from the hedgerow. John slithered along the fence through the bushes, back the way he'd come. When he thought he was about at the right spot, he sent another text. _Ding_. The display lit up faintly. John saw it. Sherlock's phone lay on the ground between the bushes.


	13. Missteps

John picked Sherlock's phone up from the ground. His call, the texts he'd sent Sherlock. Nothing else. Sherlock regularly deleted all records of calls and texts. For security reasons. But his were still there, which meant Sherlock hadn't seen them. No indication that anything had happened. John opened the contact list. Mycroft and John. No one else. No Benjamin. Good. John was satisfied even though he knew that had nothing to do with Sherlock's disappearance.

But where was Sherlock? John considered what he should do. Call Lestrade? No. First take a look at the production facility. That seemed to be the better course of action to him. John tucked Sherlock's phone away. Then he went back to the delivery trucks, keeping to the cover of the bushes. He could reach the stairs from there without triggering the spotlight.

John hadn't even reached the end of the driveway when he was alerted by a noise. The steel gate was opening. John squeezed into the hedgerow. The spotlight flared up, illuminating the driveway. A man in jeans and a dark hoodie opened both sides of the gate. A black limousine drove in, heading straight for John. John evaded the headlamps, ducking down further into the undergrowth. 

The car stopped right next to the stairs leading down to the manufacturing rooms. Two men got out, the third came over to the car after closing the gate again. They whispered to each other, chuckled softly, and went down the stairs. A door clicked closed and then it was quiet. 

John took out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade with the car's number plate and a message that three individuals had just gone into the bakery. John waited until the spotlight had gone out again, then felt for his gun in the pocket of his jacket and snuck down the stairs.

The entryway on the other side of the door was dark. It was a kind of sluice, whether for heating or sewage, John didn't know. It led into a large changing area with lockers, behind that showers and toilets. John moved toward the door leading to the next room, weapon drawn. It was a two-paneled sliding door. John didn't see any handle and couldn't rule out it being wired to a motion sensor or automated footplate that would open it if he got too close. Not good. But a familiar problem. John pressed himself up close to the wall and approached the door cautiously from the side. He held his breath, his gun at the ready, then triggered the mechanism to slide it open with a single quick motion, immediately stepping back behind the doorframe for cover. 

The next room was dark. A large production hall, a bakery that could employ several workers. Empty. John slipped inside. Up at the front, on the opposite side of the hall, there was a door with an opaque glass pane, behind which a light shone. John heard voices. He ducked behind workbenches, machines, and storage cabinets, working his way through the room toward the door. It was cracked open. But before John could peek through the crack, he was grabbed roughly by the neck, someone took away his gun, and he was shoved through the door into the lighted room.

"We have an unannounced guest," said the huge man, twisting John's arm behind his back so that he buckled, helpless. "What should I do with him?"

Four sets of eyes turned to John. Four men sat around a table in the break room, material spread out in front of them. Plastic shells. Samples of crystal meth.

"Put him on ice," one of the men said, "but take care. We don't want to leave any traces here. We'll take him with us afterwards."

"Right-o."

"And get him out of sight. I don't want the boss to know about it. Hurry. He'll be here any second."

The giant dragged John back into the room with the machines. John let himself be shimmied into a side room without a struggle. His mind was running overtime. The man in the hoodie, who now sat in there at the table: was that Benjamin Waters? Or was he mistaken? Did he just look like him? John wasn't sure. The man had still had the hood pulled up over his head, his face in the shadows, and had been at the far end of the table. He hadn't reacted when his and John's eyes had met. But John was sure that his own face must have displayed shock and disbelief. If it really was Benjamin, then he'd seen that John had recognised him. John was baffled. What did it mean? What role was Benjamin playing? What did Sherlock have to do with it all? 

While John was still paralysed from the events, his subduer tied his hands together behind his back with duct tape, immobilised his feet in the same manner, and shoved him over to a metal shelf, which he then bound him to with even more tape. Finally, he put a piece of tape over John's mouth, turned the light off, left the room, and locked the door behind him.

John tried to relax. It was a positive development first of all that he had some time to think, because in a man-to-man confrontation he'd have no chance, there were simply too many opponents in the building. He needed a plan. They weren't going to kill him here, they were going to take him with them and get rid of him somewhere else. They didn't want to leave any traces here. So they would have to unbind him to get him out to one of the vehicles. That gave him several options for escape. And they were expecting their boss. This must be a meeting of some kind. A meeting with some of the higher-ups in the drug trafficking ring. 

Did Sherlock know about it? What was going on with Benjamin? If it was even him. John wasn't sure. Damn it! Everything had gone much too fast, he hadn't been able to see enough. Were all of his recent discoveries – the password, the photographs – playing tricks with his mind? Was he being overwhelmed by the memories, fixating on Benjamin? Was he projecting? There was no actual evidence. Benjamin had been back in the States for more than three months. Hadn't he?

Where was Sherlock? Damn it! He needed to concentrate on the most important priorities: getting his own neck out of the noose and finding Sherlock. Nothing else. John tried pulling at the bindings. They were tight and didn't have any give. But the shelf he was stuck to wobbled. John yanked at it hard three or four times. Something toppled over. A dull plop. It was dark, but some stray illumination from outside found its way in through a narrow window. John felt with his bound legs for the package that had fallen to the floor on his right, but couldn't reach it. He tugged on the shelf again. Some more things fell down. Flour, cocoa. A whisk. A small plastic bucket. John dragged it over using his feet. It was coconut fat. 

John twisted and turned until he'd rolled the tub behind him and got his hands on it. It only took a minute before he had it open and reached in. The fat melted immediately between his fingers. John spread it under the tape, which started to curl up. He worked the stuff up to his wrists, pulled and twisted his greasy hands against the tape. After a few minutes, he had his hands free, ripped the gag off his mouth, and undid the rest of his bindings. He turned on the light and examined the lock in the door, looked for some tool he could use to open it.

He was just fiddling at the lock with two thin pieces of metal – some baking accessory to shape fondant – when he distinctly heard cars pulling up outside. And then everything went quite fast. Lestrade was storming the bakery with a special armed unit.

 

***

 

It didn't become clear what had happened until an hour later, when they gathered in Lestrade's office. Sherlock pale and silent. John angry. Lestrade raging.

John had managed to break open the door he'd been trapped behind. He'd joined them when Lestrade's men were leading out the suspects, including Benjamin Waters, who was now clearly identifiable without the hood on. Benjamin's blue eyes were angry as Lestrade's men dragged him past John. And then all of a sudden Sherlock was there. All the way at the back of the break room. Stiff, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his collar turned up, his shoulders hunched. John assumed he'd seen Benjamin. It wasn't important right then. John hurried over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Are you all right? Where were you?"

"In the storage room at the back," Sherlock growled.

"The entire evening?"

"Yes, the entire evening." Sherlock's voice was tight and hostile. "I wanted to secure the crystal meth. But then two men came in and I hid in the storage room. They were putting the drugs into rum balls. I eavesdropped."

"All evening?"

"I couldn't get away. The only way in is through the bakery hall. And no sooner had they finished and cleared everything away than the next group arrived."

"Did you see that Benjamin was here?"

"Yes."

"Did you know about it?"

"No."

Lestrade's men treated Benjamin as a suspect at first, but then it became clear that he'd been planted by the FBI in order to investigate the network and find out who was in charge. A meeting had been planned in the bakery with one of the most important heads of the group. But Lestrade had burst in before the expected guests had arrived. And even if they'd waited until then, a raid wouldn't have been welcome. The job of Benjamin and his partners was to gather data and generate profiles. Not break up local drug organisations. Not yet. Everything was ruined. Months' worth of work. Benjamin Waters was furious when Lestrade had him brought into his office.

"These disastrous solo operations are inexcusable," he said harshly to John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. Nothing in his attitude indicated in any way that there had once been anything more between him and Sherlock.

"You're the one who brought Sherlock Holmes in on this case originally," Lestrade protested, unhappy about the FBI agent's accusations.

"Yes. But I cut him loose in time, when he started to go off on his own. You didn't. You let him continue to stick his nose into international investigations, provided him with official information and exerted absolutely no control over what he's been doing."

Lestrade snorted indignantly but didn't say anything. Sherlock likewise remained silent, his expression frozen into a mask. John didn't say anything either. He knew that pretty much everything had gone wrong that could have. Benjamin had been sent back to London. Sherlock, unaware, had continued to look for crystal meth without any official mandate. Lestrade hadn't taken seriously enough the agreement with the FBI which gave them sole command over the investigation in this international case. John kicked himself for being such a fool as to encourage Sherlock to snap out of their lovesick stupor and go back to work.

After a phone call to Benjamin's superior in New York, it was clear that he had been taken off the case. He seemed satisfied with the result.

"I didn't want to come back to London anyway," Benjamin remarked bitterly. "I suspected there would be complications."

"Apparently I am the complication," Sherlock said dryly.

"Yes." Benjamin looked Sherlock directly in the eye. "You are. It would have been better to send someone you didn't know. But they chose me. I'm familiar with the case. I'm British. But I was almost positive we'd run into each other again sooner or later and endanger the mission."

"That's not what happened."

"No, that's not what happened. You blew up the mission with your bumbling snooping. If you'd told John what you were planning, if you'd informed Lestrade or at least made sure not to lose your phone, everything might have turned out all right. But you never communicate. I should have known." Benjamin stood up from where he had been sitting at one of the desks. "Well, now the deed is done. Too many mistakes by too many people. I'm going to look up a flight home and get some shut-eye. Good night."

Benjamin started to leave the room.

"Say hello to your wife and children," Sherlock said. His voice dripped with sarcasm and bitterness.

Benjamin stopped in his tracks. He was already in the doorway, but he turned slowly around and came back. He went over to Sherlock, calm and unhurried, stood in front of him. He stood very close, right in front of him, and locked eyes with him. John, standing a bit offset behind Sherlock, sensed how Sherlock shrank in on himself. He also saw the deep and earnest, piercing look of the FBI agent.

"I was in love," Benjamin said softly; very softly. "I was hopelessly in love with you, Sherlock. In spite of my wife and kids." A cascade of strong emotions in the blue eyes, a fierce struggle to rein them in. John felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Benjamin's words slow and heavy. "I paid for it. Dearly." And moments later: "That is never going to happen to me again. Make of that what you will, Sherlock."

They stood there facing off for a long time: Benjamin and Sherlock. Watching each other. 

Then Sherlock said, coolly: "It will never happen to me again either."

Benjamin nodded slowly. Then he turned away from Sherlock. His eyes met John's. And then he did something completely unexpected: he put a hand on John's upper arm, rubbed it briefly, sadness and warmth in his blue eyes. John was surprised when Benjamin hugged him, quick and fleeting, before nodding to Lestrade and leaving the room without saying another word.

Awkward silence. Sherlock was ashen. Lestrade speechless. John, exhausted, took a shaky breath. Then he said – after clearing his throat several times in order to get his voice back – "Let's go home, Sherlock."

 

***

 

It was a silent and lonely ride back to Baker Street. They sat next to each other on the back seat of the taxi, each man keeping to himself, closed off. They didn't touch. Neither of them spoke. 

It wasn't until they were inside the flat that John said soberly, "We're not going to bed now, Sherlock. We're going to sit down and talk."

"It's four in the morning."

"We'll go to bed after we've talked. Not before. I'm not willing to let things stand the way they are at the moment."

John went to the fireplace, put some kindling in, lit it with the help of the nearby fire starter, and opened the flue. When the flames took hold, crackling in the wood, he put two logs on and moved the grate in front of the hearth. The flat was cool. It was autumn and Mrs Hudson hadn't turned on the central heating yet.

Sherlock had gone to the table by the window in the meantime. He leaned on the back of the wooden chair with both hands, staring at the floor. He looked dispirited, seemed to be thinking about something.

"Tea?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Water," he said dully.

John nodded, went into the kitchen, past the chemistry equipment and the plates with the pastries, the crumbs and the laptop whose password was Benjamin. He filled two glasses with water, brought them into the living room, set them on the table. Sherlock was still standing there, lost in thought, propped up by the chair.

"I'm no good at this, John. I don't know what to say."

"Me either. We're going to try. We can't get around it anymore, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes sought John's where he had sat down and was now waiting. Silence between them. Sherlock's eyes soft. The space between them warm and tender. John looked into the beautiful pale eyes. Sherlock was so full of love. It was so evident in that moment, so clear that it almost took John's breath away. 

Then Sherlock lowered his gaze and said, very low, "You want to know about Benjamin."

"That too. Did you know he had a wife and children?"

"He told me when he wanted to get rid of me. I did some research. It's true. He has twins, two girls, one and a half years old. His family doesn't live in New York. Probably for security reasons. Because of his job."

"Your password."

Sherlock took a deep breath. Then he sat down on the chair, tired, joined John at the table. 

"I know," he whispered.


	14. A New Beginning

"The password is _Benjamin_ because it's secure," Sherlock said. "No one knows anything about Benjamin. And no one would ever think that I would choose a name. It's too simplistic for Sherlock Holmes. You're the only one who would consider it. I thought you would figure it out."

"Why didn't you leave the old one? I'd have known that one."

"Yes." Sherlock didn't answer right away. He seemed to be searching for an explanation. Then he said shyly, "The old password was _John4my <3._ I changed it to a meaningless alphanumeric sequence when I gave you access. I didn't want you to..." Sherlock fell silent.

It took John a moment to recover from what he'd just heard.

"Sherlock..."

"It was secure too. Extremely secure, in fact. No one would have guessed it. Not even you."

"No."

"I'll change _Benjamin_. Maybe another sequence of symbols without any meaning."

"Yes. Thank you. It's a small thing, I know. But it makes me uneasy. Benjamin's like a red flag for me, Sherlock. Not just for me. For you too. He's still very much present. That scares me. I don't understand what happened between you and him. But it was a lot, I can feel it."

"It's over, John. There's nothing there anymore."

"No. No, that's not true, Sherlock. You know that's not true."

Sherlock was silent for a long time, seemed to be thinking. Then he said, "Benjamin is like a blemish that I can't wash off. He won't leave me any peace."

"He's no blemish, Sherlock."

"Yes, he is. He opened a door that didn't belong to him. And I let him. It was wrong, so wrong. I had wanted to open that door with you. But I was never able to. I should have communicated better. But I didn't. I leapt at Benjamin's advances, I was flattered and curious. I wanted to fall in love, once, for once in my life I wanted to know what it's like when it's reciprocated. I didn't have any idea what it would mean, what it would do to me. Benjamin was my first, and he shouldn't have been. But now he always will be. I can't take it back. It's like a mark branded on my soul."

John, surprised at his friend's explanation, shook his head thoughtfully. "Sherlock. We would never have found each other without him. Look at him as someone who prepared the way. We should be grateful to him."

"You like him. That's rather obvious."

"I like him for what he did for me. For the talk he had with me. He didn't have to. But he did. He earned my respect for that. We should still let him go. Both of us. Not just you. Me too." John scrubbed his face with both hands, inhaled sharply. "Look, Sherlock, we've started something new, you and me. Something that I never, ever want to give up again. Let's try to leave everything else behind us. Do you think we can manage that?"

Sherlock's fingers wandered across the table, touched John's hand, caressed it. John opened his hands, took his friend's hands in his.

"This is so important to me, John," Sherlock whispered. "To be allowed to touch you. It's so incredibly important. Much more important than I think you believe. I yearn to touch you. Always. And I want to sleep with you. Over and over again. My body cries out for it. And my heart. My head. Everything. It's all so..." Sherlock struggled for words. "… so incomprehensible."

Sherlock's long, emotional speech stirred something in John. They held each other's gaze. Silver flickers in the ice-blue eyes.

"I can't work anymore, John," Sherlock said, the agitation in his undertone making it clear how serious the situation was. "You've seen what happens when I try. I deduce incorrectly. I misjudge situations. I make erroneous decisions. I lose my mobile. Please, John. Please, give me a chance to get myself straight. I need to find the ground under my feet again."

"What do you suggest?"

"Let's get away from here. At least for two or three weeks. Somewhere where we'll have peace and quiet and time for us. Give me a chance to understand my body, my emotions, my heart, my head, the hormones, whatever it is. It's... it's overwhelming me, John."

Sherlock's expression, becoming fond, fonder and more affectionate. Sherlock sighed, squeezed John's hands firmly. Then he said, out of the blue, "I'm a complicated man, John, I know. I'm an arrogant arse, impatient, incapable of communication. Intimacy confuses me. I lie whenever it will gain me an advantage. I don't take the truth very seriously. You know that. And yet I can't play pretend with what's happening here. I can't pretend love. To say nothing of devotion. I can't play act my desire for you, and I can't control it. Come to bed with me. Please."

John had stared in wonder at Sherlock, into his eyes, sensed his growing turmoil.

"Now?"

"Yes." And several heartbeats later: "It's a language in which I can't lie. Nor can you. And it's a language in which we have rather a lot to say to each other."

Sherlock withdrew his hand from his friend's, stroked John's lips with the tips of his fingers. John allowed the wave of arousal to sweep through him unchecked. It was a language in which they couldn't lie. How true. True and dangerous.

John had wanted to talk. Really talk. But he understood that there was a language in which Sherlock could lay bare his innermost self, and did so. Without words. He, John, needed only to accept that language, to listen to it and trust in what it said. 

Sherlock in his arms, hot between tangled sheets, naked skin, friction and desire, an uncontrolled fever of delirium. Sinking into calm, broad waters. The smell of satiation, of fulfillment. Curls tickling his neck, warm lips nuzzling him in a transcendant state. Familiar eyes, overflowing with love. The callused fingers full of gentleness, John yielding to them utterly.

"There's a dream," Sherlock said softly, just before he fell asleep in John's arms. "I'm solving highly complex cases, leading a breathtaking and adventurous life. And you're always with me. And when everything's over and done with, I burrow into your arms, burrow deep inside you and you save me, we save each other, and we get completely swept up in each other, settle down together in the nest of our souls."

John ran a hand through the damp curls, suckled Sherlock's lower lip between his, soft and tender. Sherlock sighed, tightened his legs around John's and drifted off. Nest of souls. Morning was dawning outside and John knew he wasn't going in to work that day. It didn't matter, regardless of what consequences there might be.

 

***

 

"There are objective reasons," Sherlock had said.

"Yes, I realise that. But no fuss."

"No, no fuss. Agreed."

"All right."

No fuss. Thursday afternoon on a grey winter's day. At least John had bought a new suit. Nothing special. Simple. Dark anthracite. He could also wear the suit to the theatre or a concert or some other social event. Sherlock had enough suits already. No fuss. 

The appointment was at 3:30 that afternoon. They took a taxi. Molly and Greg were already there, waiting. John and Sherlock hadn't wanted any speeches. They just signed the paper. Molly and Greg attested to its correctness with their own signatures. 

Then they all drove to Bedford Hill and drank to John and Sherlock in the Lost & Found. Or rather: to the certificate, now valid, which officially recognised them as a couple. Greg, taking his job as best man seriously, paid for a bottle of their best champagne. Afterwards they continued on to Leopold Road and ate at Holy Smoke. John had reserved a table for four.

"I thought," Greg said later that evening, after a rather adventurous dinner and quite a lot of the excellent red wine, "I thought I'd never live to see the day. Truly. I never knew what was going on with you, whether you were really... you know."

"You mean whether we were having sex?" Sherlock had drunk quite a lot by his measure and clearly relished embarrassing Greg with the topic. And turning to John with an innocent look: "Do we do that, John? I think Greg means intercourse."

"Stop it, Sherlock." John didn't find it particularly amusing to air this kind of thing in front of Greg and Molly.

Molly, however, who had been rather quiet throughout the evening, seemed to take a keen interest in the topic. "I want to know," she said stubbornly, and it didn't sound like she was teasing. "I've never quite been able to figure the two of you out."

"We signed the certificate, Molly," Sherlock said with a smile.

"So? That doesn't mean you're really a couple. I wouldn't put it past you only to have signed it because you need it for something. For a case. Or something else, I don't know. I mean, you aren't wearing any rings, you didn't throw a party, you didn't even kiss in the registrar's office. You're acting like it's a sales contract for a new refrigerator."

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Bewildered at first, but then sharing a grin of amusement. They were sitting on a bench upholstered in red leather, and Sherlock had taken John's hand in his a while ago. Their fingers played with each other under the table. 

John said to Molly, "I admit it's not exactly romantic. But it's true."

"Does that mean you're sleeping together?" Molly obviously wanted to have things spelled out, and wasn't about to back down. She looked at Sherlock, demanding an answer.

John understood her. Sherlock had played with her emotions time and again, had pretended to be interested in her whenever he'd needed something from her. And he'd strung her along, letting her dangle at the end of the line. That's why John had insisted on bringing Molly along as one of their witnesses. He wanted her to know so that she would stop having false hopes about Sherlock. There was another reason, too, for choosing Molly and Greg: they were both discreet and wouldn't make a big deal out of it.

Sherlock and Molly watched each other. Sherlock slowly lifted the hand that was tangled with John's and set it on the table where everyone could see it. Just for two or three seconds before they let go. They'd agreed: this was just for them, not for public display.

"If you really want an explicit answer," Sherlock said solemnly, "then yes, we're also sleeping together."

Molly's lips twitched. Something complicated happened with her expression. She swallowed hard. Then she said, "Okay. Thank you."

Greg had watched the scene sceptically. He took a big sip of his wine. "So it's true after all," he harrumphed.

A little later, they set out into the night. Now that they were walking through the wintry chill of the alleyways, John and Sherlock did hold hands, even though Greg and Molly were watching. After all, it was official now, even if not public knowledge. They found a nice pub and ended the day with a whisky.

Molly warmed up a little now that things were clear and her doubts had been dealt with. Maybe because the pub was warm and cosy as well, the mood cheerful, and the whisky exquisite, because they were sitting together, the alcohol loosening their tongues and the secrecy of the event made them a band of four co-conspirators. 

John and Sherlock laughed over the fact that not even Molly and Greg thought they had it in them to be in a relationship. But deep down, it made John reflect, when he looked back on the long journey they'd undertaken. When he remembered all of the mistakes they'd made until they'd believed in themselves. And as the night progressed and he retreated ever longer and deeper into Sherlock's eyes, he found there as well beneath the smile the gravity and the knowledge of what they were to each other.

 

***

 

One by one, the lights along the coast faded off the stern. Only the lighthouse on the headlands off the backboard side continued to blink its presence out into the night. The chugging of the ship's diesel engine and the gentle motion of the sea. Darkness and water ahead. Thousands of lights had gone on aboard the ship itself. Music was playing somewhere. Sherlock had pulled John down the corridor into their cabin. It was plain but ideally situated on one side near the bow, an outside cabin with a balcony and view of the water, far away from the engine, from the restaurants, bars and lifts. Sherlock had wanted to go on a cruise. John's objections and warnings had been useless. And so they'd bought the tickets. Three weeks in the Caribbean.

The cabin was better than John had feared. It was surprisingly roomy, with a shower and loo, large bed, a small table with two chairs, and two lounge chairs on the balcony. Sherlock drew John into the cabin – they'd already unpacked – and closed the door behind them.

"Sit down, John."

John dropped onto the bed, stretched out. He was tired after the flight and the chaos on board until everyone was assigned a cabin and had stowed their luggage. So many people. John wasn't sure they'd really be happy here. Three weeks in this cabin. Plus he was hungry. He'd wanted to go eat but didn't know what Sherlock had planned. Sherlock rummaged around in his bags before joining John on the bed.

"John? Can you take a look at this please?"

"All right."

John sat up, sighing. But then from one moment to the next he was wide awake, staring in shock at the little box Sherlock was holding.

"Sherlock..." John couldn't speak.

Platinum, unpolished. The bands were narrow, so meaningful in their simplicity that John became emotional at the sight.

"We said no rings," he said, his voice thick.

"I know."

Sherlock took one of them out of the box, reached for John's hand and slid it onto his finger. It fit as if it had been custom-made for him. Sherlock took the other one out and put it on himself.

"It's just for here, John," he said. "I know you didn't want any rings."

John stared at his hand. The ring was captivating in its beauty. The plain, unpolished surface with its mysterious sheen, seeming to conceal unfathomable worlds behind its stand-offish veil. He felt as if he'd always worn it. And the same ring connected him with such breathtaking implicitness to Sherlock's hand that John's heart threatened to stop beating. Bloody hell. They were wearing the same ring, and that plain piece of metal made both of their hands so incredibly beautiful that his heart skipped a beat. It was as if the stars had come down to them. Damn. John tried to brush off the ridiculous thought, tried to get a hold of himself. He was confused, looked up, met Sherlock's eyes.

"What have you done, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"They're quite nice, aren't they?"

"Yeah, they are. But why? We agreed."

Sherlock took a deep breath. His fingers brushed John's hand. "We don't need to wear them afterwards," he said shyly. "But I'd like to know what it's like, just once in my life, to be visibly connected to someone. To be a couple, so that everyone knows and can see. At least here, on this ship, with four thousand other people who don't know us. I thought you might do that for me, at least."

John watched Sherlock, sitting next to him stroking John's fingers with his index finger. Insecure. Not looking up. The dark locks of hair hung in his face and he smelled like travel, like exhaustion and like the salt of the Caribbean. John's heart clenched. Sherlock was his partner. There was no reason not to make that clear.

"Sherlock." Flickering sky-blue eyes. John squeezed Sherlock's hand, then ran his own hand through the dark hair and looked deep into the familiar eyes, moved. "Of course I'll wear the ring, Sherlock. On this trip for sure. And later too, if you'd like."

Sherlock nodded, rested his head against John's. John cupped Sherlock's head in both hands and kissed him tenderly.

"I didn't know it was important to you, Sherlock. I'm sorry. We dismissed it so quickly and didn't ever really talk about it."

"It wasn't important to me either. At least not at first. I thought we'd go on as if nothing had changed. No fuss. But then after we signed, I realised I'm proud of it. It is important to me. And things have changed. I'm taken, and I want people to know."

John rubbed his forehead against Sherlock's, pulled his friend close and hugged him. "And it's also..." Sherlock whispered into John's neck, "it's also a kind of protection. Against other people."

"Yes." John had closed his eyes and held Sherlock tight, ran his hand down Sherlock's back, through his hair, before finally looking at him. "Let's go take a shower," he suggested gently. "And then let's start our holiday. Let's go eat and see what it's like to be a real couple amidst four thousand strangers. I'm starving."

The next morning, when John took the ring off to take a look at it in the daylight, he saw there was something engraved on the inside:

_Sherlock_

 

The End

End note: The rings were inspired by Aiwa Sensei's wonderful scenes as part of the 30 Day OTP Challenge. It's always fascinated me how she knows how to show hands wearing rings at just the right moment in the picture: http://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/post/134831850975/30-day-otp-challenge-24-making-up-afterwards-the


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